Smoky Lentil & White Bean Chili

I have a confession. I get mildly irritated by recipe websites.

I want to know how to make vegetable soup, but first I have to read about the author's childhood summers at her grandmother's farmhouse, the smell of freshly baked bread, and the life-changing afternoon when she discovered the transformative power of celery.

Twenty minutes later, I'm still scrolling. I have learned a great deal about her family, her marriage, and possibly her spiritual development, but I still don't know how much broth to add.

Of course, I now find myself writing a story to accompany a recipe. Apparently, I've become part of the problem.

At least I'll give you a way out.

A Chili With Reasonable Expectations

I rarely follow a recipe exactly. I read several, decide what sounds good, eliminate what doesn't, and then proceed to make something that only vaguely resembles any of them.

Usually, it works out beautifully. Tony loves my cooking, which is gratifying, although it does mean I don't have much of a critical review committee.

I suppose I'll have to continue relying on my own judgment.

One of my more persistent cooking habits is taking a perfectly good recipe and trying to make it vegetarian, vegan, or gluten-free. Not because I adhere strictly to any one of those diets, but because I like experimenting with ingredients. And because there are people in my family who genuinely cannot eat certain things.

This time, I wanted chili. Not the traditional ground-beef-and-kidney-bean version. I wanted something thick, hearty, full of vegetables, a little smoky, and substantial enough that nobody would be wandering into the kitchen an hour later looking for a sandwich.

I started with lentils. I like lentils. They're inexpensive, versatile, nutritious, and, importantly, they don't generally make me feel as though I've swallowed a bicycle pump.

Beans and I have a complicated relationship.

I love them. Many of them do not love me back.

Cannellini beans, however, are usually willing to coexist peacefully with my digestive system, so they made the cut. Kidney beans and black beans were not invited.

Then came the vegetables: carrots, celery, onion, garlic, tomatoes, spinach, a red bell pepper, and a poblano. I decided to roast the poblano first, to give it a smoky flavor. I also added a potato, partly because I like potatoes and partly because I wanted something that would naturally thicken the chili.

I debated serving it over rice, quinoa, couscous, or pasta. This is fairly typical of my cooking process. A simple dinner can become an extended internal committee meeting.

Quinoa won. At least this time.

For seasoning, I went with cumin, chili powder, smoked paprika, oregano, coriander, and Aleppo pepper. I love Aleppo pepper. It has warmth and complexity without making you feel as though you've set fire to your esophagus.

I also decided to try a little unsweetened cocoa powder, which sounds peculiar but adds depth without making the chili taste like dessert.

I am not interested in chocolate chili. I am interested in good chili.

The beauty of this recipe is that it's forgiving. You can add more vegetables, substitute kale for spinach, increase the smokiness, or make it thicker or thinner. I happen to think the best recipes leave room for the cook to have an opinion.

And if you manage to make something wonderful, I strongly recommend writing down what you did.

I'm trying to get better about that myself.