One day I said to my father, "Daddy, will you teach me how to make chili the way you do?"

Dad was famous throughout the Southern Pacific railroad for this delicacy, know as Rimrock's Chile. (I never knew where his nickname of "Rimrock" came from, something to do with Rimrock Canyon somewhere in Idaho and some obscure railroading incident.)

He was obviously flattered that I would ask for his help and agreed to share this magical recipe with me along with anything else I wanted to learn about cooking.

My mother, you see, was an impatient type in the kitchen, and would much prefer to do everything herself rather than bother with teaching her tomboy daughter to cook. Since "everything" usually included the clean-up afterward, I willingly left her to it.

My father was a pretty good cook, having had to "batch" it, as he said, during the summer months when Mother took us children to California to live by the beach. He had only two dishes in his repertoire, including the famous chili, so my course of study would not take very long, which was fortunate, since my attention span for domestic skills was minimal.

With great earnestness I prepared to follow in the footsteps of the master chef as he practiced his craft.

First, of course, it was necessary for me to run to the Piggly Wiggly market three blocks away and buy the necessary ingredients.

"Now, remember", I recall him saying, "buy two pounds of ground round, not hamburger. And if it's more than twenty-five cents a pound, have Mr. Perkins put it on our bill."

I took the money he gave me and dashed out the front door, eager to prove my mettle as a canny shopper. His voice followed me down the sidewalk, "and be sure to get the right kind of beans!".

"Okay, Daddy", I said as I strapped on my roller skates, tightening them with the skate key that hung on a string around my neck. Soon I was off down the street, skating as fast as I safely could, and feeling as if I was on a very important mission, like delivering the message to Garcia or something.

An hour later, having inspected my purchases searchingly, my father began the lesson. We worked on the kitchen table, weeping oceans of tears as we chopped two large onions.

"You don't have to chop too fine", Dad said as he wiped his eyes with his sleeve, "just about the size of a kernel of corn".

I nodded, unable to speak, as I cried over my onion. The knife he had given me to use was so dull that I couldn't have chopped the onion any finer even if he had wanted me to.

I was really glad when we got to the next step, which was to heat up the big old cast-iron skillet, in which was melting a generous lump of bacon grease. We put the ground round steak in the pan, along with the onions and listened to the sizzle as the meat began to brown while Dad stirred the mixture. Then we added salt and watched the meat and onions cooking, savoring the aroma.

I loved the way Dad described how to prepare things. After the meat was brown enough he turned the fire down a little bit and showed me how to add the correct amount of Gebhardt's chili powder.

"Just keep adding it until it smells right", he advised, "and do not ever use any other kind of chili powder...only Gebhardt's".

"Yes, Daddy", was my solemn reply as I breathed in the odor coming from the skillet, "but how will I know when it smells right?".

He was very patient. "You'll know", he said, "because you will want to dish up a bowl and start eating when it smells right!". I took his word for this, but felt a little doubtful in my mind that I could judge the time correctly. However, there were more ingredients to be added to the magic brew, so I nodded wisely and asked what we would do next.

"Next", he replied, "we put in the two cans of tomato soup and stir until it's all mixed". He let me do this very important task with the long-handled wooden spoon, watching me carefully and patting my shoulder in praise when it was all mixed to his satisfaction.

Finally, we were down to adding the beans, two big cans of small red beans from Piggly Wiggly. Once they were in the pot, we put the lid on and turned the heat down very low.

"Is that all?" I asked, feeling sort of let down. It had seemed too simple.

"Yes, PeeWee, that's all, until we're ready to eat it. The longer it cooks, the better it will taste. Let's go play some Chinese Checkers while it cooks!"

And so we did. And so I learned to cook Rimrock's Chili, which I have served on a number of occasions to "gourmet" cooks, who exclaim how good it is, and what a lot of work it must be. One lady of my acquaintance years ago wanted to know how many days it took to prepare! She raved about it so enthusiastically that I, feeling gratified, gave her the recipe. I've never forgotten the stunned look on her face as she read the list of ingredients...I am not at all sure that she didn't shudder slightly as she contemplated the horror of making chili with ground meat instead of shredded beef, Campbell's tomato soup (no other brand would do) and canned beans!