Her tombstone in Ocilla, Georgia is carved with:
Esther Ledwith Jones | Captain US Army | World War II | Brooklyn, NY
My Mom’s Chili.
by Michael Ledwith
August 13, 2023
After meeting Christy Tate and finding out that chili could be made from something other than browning hamburger meat and warming it up in canned tomato soup, I began questioning my mom’s cooking skills.
But, then I thought about it.
She was born in Brooklyn to an Irish family, lived in an Irish neighborhood, had gone to Catholic schools taught by Irish nuns, and the Irish, with the exception of baking scones, were not known for their culinary skill.
Or, weren’t prior to the Irish Tiger of the 1990s when the flood of money changed Ireland forever.
Mercedes Benz and boutiques.
Gastro pubs with draft foreign beers, vodka, tequila and quiche.
Quiche, for feck’s sake.
I had made new Irish friends with people at Publicis Dublin when I worked on a project with them in 2011.
Traditional Irish men and women all.
They instructed me about where to drink while in Ireland:
‘Yank, when you walk into a pub in Dublin, if you see big screen HDTVs hanging where there used to be portraits of JFK and Eammon De Valera, turn on your heel and walk out.
It ain’t an Irish pub.
A foreign chain most likely, or owned by a fecking UK brewery.
Be like having a Diet Guinness at a McDonalds.
If you drive into the countryside, Mike, and come into a beautiful Irish town to stop for a bite and a pint…if there are more than three different draft beer handles sticking up at the bar, walk out.
It ain’t an Irish pub.
They’ll be no old men about in a place like that. No old ladies with wispy white hair hanging from their chins sitting having orange sodas. The stories there will be about TV reality shows, Audis and the like, not talk of revolution and when Barry Fitzgerald popped in once during a storm.’
Staying with an Irish family in the 1970s I lost ten pounds in a week despite multiple pints of porter every evening. The food was godawful. Cabbage and boiled beef.
They ate better in Stalag 17. I lived on Guinness, butter, jam, and scones.
My mom came from that tradition of awfulness.
But, she didn’t care.
To a beautiful, daring young woman who smoked Camels while strutting down 5th Avenue in Manhattan, who drank martinis at the Algonquin listening in on the Vicious Circle…not being able to cook, not wanting to cook, not being interested in cooking meals for her man, hating shopping for groceries, never serving, much less eating a salad, thinking seafood was a church mandatory on Fridays, eaten only to avoid damnation, was a badge of honor.
Of, breaking away.
Fish on Fridays was a third circle of hell for our family growing up. A harsher damnation.
Fish sticks or tuna casserole. Every Friday.
A standing prime rib and mashed potatoes for lunch after Sunday Mass was as sophisticated as her efforts went. One outside slice reserved for my dad. The second to the kid who won the contemporary events quiz held after the blessing.
The mashed potatoes lumpy, an aluminum foil flag at the top of the pile. Nothing green on the table.
TV dinners. Bologna sandwiches. Spam a time or two per week to remind us of when we lived in Germany. Chicken cacciatore, or what was referred to as chicken cacciatore, on a special occasion.
But, one Esther Ledwith of Brooklyn masterpiece.
Her signature dish.
Her proving that we were a cosmopolitan family, open to sampling other cultures and she a Chef Girlyardee when she tried:
Her Chili Con Carne. I bragged about her chili for years.
I convinced my future wife, Christy Tate, to meet me in Satellite Beach after knowing her for a year.
She lived on East 65th Street in Manhattan.
Went to movies constantly. The little ones playing Truffaut and Fellini. Dinner at those expensive, tiny French restaurants within blocks of her apartment where Don Draper and Mayor Lindsey dined in the corners knocking off issues while matching entree with a sommelier curated wine.
Dim sum in Chinatown. Red sauce dishes and Chianti in Little Italy amid the mobsters.
Peter Luger in Brooklyn.
Her taste range of favorite foods, chefs, restaurants, dishes, sides, wines, brandies, vodkas, tequilas, grappas represented the Alpha to the Omega of gustatory trial and taste.
Then arriving in Satellite Beach, the knock on my mom’s apartment door.
Christy in Halston, and three-inch wedgie sandals. Majestic Afro. Her tan blending nicely with tasteful Navaho turquoise and silver jewelry. Kiehl’s musk floating about her.
My mom flinging the door open and enveloping her in a crushing hug.
Is that Kiehl’s, mom asked her?
My mom knew of Kiehl’s musk?
Christy asking if she had made her famous chili for dinner?
Of course, mom cried!
Into the living room. The photo albums of Mike as a kid. ‘That’s my Mike!
In Japan. In high school. My sports trophies proudly displayed and explained.
Coffee and Coca-Cola. It was a tee totaling house, and then, her signature dinner of chili con carne.
But, between the last time I had my mom’s chili and this time…I had been to a few Mexican places in Chicago. Christy had made her version of chili a few times. In Jacksonville a month before, we had gone to the famous Chili Bordello.
My mom’s was still great. A bit different. But, for an Irish girl who cared nothing for cooking, in a tuna casserole/fish sticks sort of way, stupendous.
Driving back to the Sea Aire Motel in Cocoa Beach after dinner, Christy talked about my wonderful mother.
How much I looked like her. How smart, articulate, curious, well read and funny she was. How cute I was as a baby…did I think we would have babies as cute?
She talked about everything surrounding the first meeting with mom and her first time in the Satellite Beach she had heard so many stories about.
Branched over into the Watergate Hearings and the best movies of that year so far, and her last trip to Paris…and…and…
I finally broke in. Did you like my mom’s chili?
Well, Christy answered carefully, it seemed, what is there to say?
It’s, well, it’s really not chili…but it was delicious.
Not chili, I cried!
I think it was just tomato soup heated up with a pound of browned ground beef mixed in.
Not really chili con carne, Michael. Let’s call it County Cavan Chili!
I’ll make it for you on St. Patrick’s Day!
-30-
Frequent contributor Michael Ledwith is a former bag boy at Winn-Dixie, who worked on the Apollo Program one summer in college. A former U.S. Army officer, he ran with the bulls in Pamplona and saw Baryshnikov dance ’Giselle’ at the Auditorium Theater. Surfer. Rock and roll radio in Chicago. Shareholder, Christopher’s American Grill, London. Father. Movie lover—favorite dialogue: “I say he never loved the emperor.”
Comments 18
Michael,
A fun read. Thank you.
That was one smart woman you married.
If you’ve written more about your mother, please post a link.
PS – Is she wearing crossed rifles on her lapels or crossed pistols?
I never saw a WAC with INfantry insignia.
My beloved God Mother, Aunt Hellen, made a spaghetti sauce that was 100% Campbell’s cream of tomato soup.
Very nice read!
Friday in our house was hit-or-miss. A good Friday supper might yield pizza from Leona’s or Laurie’s. Often, it was something not offensive, such as eggs, or Appian Way pizza from a box with green pepper strips. But I rued the Fridays Mom took on fishsticks, or worse, tuna noodle casserole with peas, topped with crushed potato chips!
My mom’s chilli was solid, however.
Good memories. Thanks.
My Mother grew up in the depression, and her father made chili once a week. My Mom hated it so much that she often threw up, but her Dad still made her eat it every time – it was the depression, after all. Therefore, when I was a kid, I never experienced chili, or, by extension, any Mexican food. Fast forward to my early 20s, and I am now an experienced bachelor cook, with many Mexican friends and a lot of cooking under my belt. I surprised my parents by cooking dinner for them right after I graduated University of Illinois. The not-well-hidden look of disdain on my Mom’s face when she realized it was Chicken Enchiladas gave me pause. But she sucked it up and tried it anyway, for the sake of my ego. To my great surprise and happiness, she loved it! For the next twenty years she enjoyed Mexican food, and thanked me for introducing it to her. My Dad, not so much… even on vacation in Mexico all he would eat was steaks. But as for chili? I’m still on my own… Thanks for breaking free a wonderful memory with your column.
Wonderful stuff! My Mother is Italian and a great cook, my Dad was Irish and, well, not so much. During WWII he was a Merchant Marine and cooked sometimes on ships in the North Atlantic and later in the Pacific. Apparently they were so hungry they would eat whatever “epicurean delight” he dreamed up, but that didn’t translate well to us ten kids.
The first thing I learned in Ireland is that I shouldn’t expect much in the way of food, and I was never disappointed.
Ah, Michael! The women in your life… Your mother quite the cosmopolitan, and your wife as well. And both of them so incredibly gracious.
You’re a blessed man!
Wow, my mother had the same recipe too, only with onions, if we had one! Delicious it was.
We had generous helpings of S O S Sh t on a shingle and Banquet beef & gravy.
Irish soda bread on THAT special holiday.
Great articles Mike!
Thanks Mike, your story makes my day!
Your column made me chuckle. Pretty close to my mom’s chili recipe. Visited Ireland a few times in the 70s before the money. The food was not good with the exception of Irish steaks at Chinese restaurants. Go figure.
YES JOHN THE MEMORIES
HOW ABOUT MOM’S IRISH SPAGHETTI-SOUTHSIDE CHICAGO STYLE .
RECIPE TO FOLLOW
1 BOX RED CROSS SPAGHETTI BRING TO FULL BOIL FOR 10 MINUTES -DRAIN AND RETURN TO POT.
SAUTEE 3 STALKS OF CELERY ,CHOPPED FINE ,UNTIL CLEAR AND WILTED DUMP IN POT
2 CANS CAMPBELLS TOMATO SOUP ,DO NOT DELUTE ,MIX WELL WITH SPAGHETTI AND DUMP IN POT.
1/3 BOX OF VALVETTA CHEESE STIR INTO AND MELT IN POT WITH THE SPAGHETTI , MIX WELL WITH ALL INGREDIENTS .
TOP WITH ITALIAN SEASONING AND PARMESAN CHEESE.
SHUT UP AND EAT IT , “THERE ARE KIDS ALL OVER THE WORLD THAT WISH THEY COULD HAVE A DINNER LIKE THIS ”
MADE WITH LOVE BY OUR MOTHER ,MAY SHE REST IN THE PEACE OF OUR LORD.
JACK
What a wonderful read! My husband is South side Chicago Irish. I do think my mother-in-law’s recipe for chili was a wee step up from your Mom’s, Michael. Brown onions with 1# ground beef. Then add a can of stewed tomatoes, simmer a bit and serve.
This story and the comments are so touching. Both my parents grew up in large families and the cost of a meal per person was very important. As my father said, the rabbits in the hutches in the back yard were not pets. Their experiences carried over with their family. Not sure when I had my first steak-and not a Salisbury steak. My mother is a pretty good cook, but in her 80s, she doesn’t jump into a lot of new. For us Italian was always a pound of frozen hamburger dethawed and cooked in a skillet with a lot of perseverance. Onions always got added and I’m almost afraid to ask her about tomatos/sauce for the pasta. Cook some spaghetti, drain and mix it all together. In a qty for dinner and after school snacks for days, especially after we got a microwave. The only thing we ever had with beans was Navy beans with a ham bone.
Someday my son will smile at my culinary experience but you do the best you can.
Reminds me of my mom’s chop suey. Chinese with a Bohemian spin. Pork and lots of soy sauce. Didn’t know the difference until I went to an actual Chinese restaurant! “A” for effort?
I always dreaded Thursday night salmon patties
Still can’t eat ‘em
Great tribute to your Mom, Mike. God rest her lovely soul. Great stuff, as always!
Houli
Oh, the spaghetti I grew up with! (Dutch heritage) Ground beef and a can of Campbells Tomato Soup, salt to taste, plus spaghetti all mixed in one pot. When we were older, my siblings and I would add ketchup to spice it up. I stopped making it when I was a young bride, and that “spaghetti” dinner was served only once. I would make it for lunch for my children when they were young, and they loved it (notice the past tense!). I wonder if this is a left over from the Depression.