Betty, Shelley & Veggie Chili: A Love Story...a recipe and a blog by Bethany Groff Dorau
My name is Bethany, but you can call me Stephanie (everyone else does).
I have also been called Brenda, Beth (which I can’t stand) and even, believe it or not, Bertha Croft, by former Amesbury mayor Nick Costello, who was announcing me at a public event. We had a good laugh about it afterward.
But only one person on earth has ever called me Betty.
I met Shelley in 1990, the day after I turned 16.
Shelly, circa 1991, with author's obligatory Cure posters.
The old Storey Avenue Friendly Restaurant, now Provident Bank. Courtesy image by Herb Contos.
I had long dreamed of donning the polyester uniform and practical shoes of a Friendly waitress, and as luck would have it, I was hired right away, the assistant manager clearly swayed by my impassioned plea to join the Storey Avenue Friendly’s family.
Shelley was the grill cook, and she was a stunner. Perfect milk-white skin, pale blue eyes ringed top and bottom with thick black lines that met in a sweeping point, an electric blue mohawk and knee-high, 14-hole Doc Martens boots. She was dressed in black from head to toe, her fingers and neck ringed with heavy silver crosses and skulls.
I was awestruck and terrified.
It was a long time before I had the nerve to talk to Shelley, who answered my ridiculous questions about her hair, and the music she listened to, and the stickers on her car, with patience and amusement. She decided to call me Betty. Several weeks later, she picked me up for coffee, my astonished parents trying not to stare or order me back into the house. The inherent goodness of Shelley proved irresistible, even to my parents, and several days later, they allowed me to be bundled into her car and off I went to my first punk rock music show.
It was May 13, 1990, and the band was Social Distortion at The Channel, for those of you who are playing at home. I remember driving home in the wee hours of the morning, a bit bruised and wide eyed and tingling, listening to Depeche Mode on the CD player that plugged into the tape deck. I held it on my lap as it whirred and sputtered.
That show, and my friendship with Shelley, changed everything for me, introducing me to a world of music and art and kids who celebrated, rather than feared, their outsider status. We may not have been the most welcoming sight, hanging out on Inn Street in our ripped army pants and studded jackets, but we had each other, and for some of us, it was the first time we felt accepted and whole, just exactly as we were.
Shelley proved to be a gentle soul, though she did not suffer fools. She was, and is, a champion of the underdog, the downtrodden, a friend to the intoxicated and the heartbroken. Thirty years later, she is still my dear friend, though she may never speak to me again after she finds out I distributed a picture of her in this newsletter.
It is not surprising, perhaps, that Shelley was one of the few vegetarians I knew back then, though I could occasionally talk her into a bowl of clam chowder at the Grog. Years went by, and then decades.
Orville and Wilbur, who inspired not only my vegetarianism but the creation of a farm sanctuary that included pigs, at the Spencer-Peirce-Little Farm in Newbury.
In 2004, I raised two piglets for a season and then sent them to slaughter, reasoning that if I could eat a pig that I had raised, I could ethically continue to eat meat. I failed this test miserably, turning tearfully away from the bacon and chops that had once been Wilbur and Orville.
Shelley was a model of the kind of vegetarian I wanted to be. She never harangued, never pointed out the dubious ethics of eating animals while volunteering for farm animal rescues. She spoke from her own experience, her own love of all animals, and her conviction that there is enough suffering in the world, and if we can avoid adding to it, we should. And she made delicious, nutritious, filling vegetarian food, and shared it with everyone.
When I told Shelley that I had joined her at long last in the ranks of the meat-less mavens, she made me a pot of my favorite soup, a delicious veggie chili, and when I asked for the recipe, gave some guidelines rather than an actual recipe. Here is Shelley’s veggie chili:
“It’s onion, red bell pepper, toasted quinoa, lentils, black beans, red beans, chickpeas, diced tomato, green chilies, tomato paste, water, chipotle tabasco sauce, smoked paprika, chipotle powder & veggie stock & water. Often there is jalapeño peppers, corn & leeks in there too. It evolves.”
Over the years, as I have made this recipe-less chili, it has been tweaked and adjusted based on my preferences and a whole lot of trial and error. Recently, a friend who is going vegan asked me for the recipe, and I stopped to actually measure the ingredients, though much of the fun is changing it up so it suits your tastes. My kids eat more when it’s mild. My husband adds hot sauce. My friend from Texas scoffs and says this is not chili of any kind, but veggie dip. Each to his own. This is filling, comforting, flavorful, smokey and nutritious. The spinach packs an iron-laden, meaty punch, as do the nuts, so don’t skimp there unless you must.
Thank you, Shelley, for everything.
Love,
Betty
Someone else's appetizing veggie chili, "stolen" from the internet as mine does not photograph well.
