WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 22 , 2021. THE WASHINGTON POST EZ EE E7
Chile Relleno Casserole
4 to 6 servings (makes about 8 cups)
This recipe can easily be halved. If canned poblanos are hard to track
down, broil and process fresh poblanos (see NOTE). This will add extra
25 or so minutes for prep. Canned chopped green chiles work in a pinch,
but won’t yield the same layering effect.
Canned poblanos can be found at Mexican markets and online at
mexgrocer.com.
Active time: 35 mins; Total time: 1 hour 20 mins
MAKE AHEAD: The unbaked casserole can be assembled, covered
tightly and refrigerated for up to 2 days. Take the chill off by resting it on
a countertop for about 30 minutes. Then, bake as directed.
Leftover casserole can be refrigerated for up to 3 days.
Adapted by Caroline Hatchett from a recipe by Lynda Finch.Ingredients
l1 pound ground beef,
preferably^90 / 10 blend
l1 cup (4 ounces) chopped
yellow onion
l2 teaspoons ground cumin
l1 teaspoon fine salt, divided
l^3 / 4 teaspoon freshly groundblack pepper
lUnsalted butter, for greasing
l1 (27^1 / 2 ounce) can whole
poblano peppers, drained
(may substitute 6 large fresh
poblanos; see NOTE)
l2 cups (8 ounces) shredded
cheddar cheesel^1 / 4 cup all-purpose flour
l 11 / 2 cups (350 milliliters)
whole milk
l4 large eggs, beatenSteps
lPosition a rack in the middle of
the oven and preheat to
3 75 degrees.
lIn a large skillet over medium-
high heat, cook the beef and
onions, breaking up the meat
with a wooden spoon and
browning the beef until it
starts to turn crispy, about
10 minutes. Using a slotted
spoon, transfer the beef mix-
ture to a medium bowl, leaving
behind as much fat as possible
in the pan. Season the mixture
with the cumin,^3 / 4 teaspoon of
the salt and the black pepper.
lGrease a 9-inch square baking
dish with the butter or the fatrendered from the beef. Gently
remove the stems and seeds
from the poblanos and open
the peppers so the flesh lies
flat. Line the bottom of the pan
with the poblanos, skin side
down, overlapping them some
to cover completely. Chop any
remaining poblanos and set
aside. Layer the meat-onion
mixture over the whole pobla-
nos and top with the shredded
cheese and reserved chopped
peppers.
lIn a medium bowl, whisk
t ogether the flour and the
remaining^1 / 4 teaspoon of salt.
While whisking, gradually
pour in the milk, breaking up
any clumps of flour. Whisk in
the eggs and evenly pour the
mixture into the baking dish.
lBake the casserole for 45 min-
utes, or until it has puffed and
browned. Remove from the
oven and serve.
lNOTE: To use fresh rather than
canned poblanos, position an
oven rack 4 to 6 inches from
the oven’s broiler element; pre-
heat to broil. Place the pobla-
nos on a large, rimmed baking
sheet and broil until they
brown in spots and blister
without charring, watching
them carefully and turning
them with tongs until they are
blistered all over. Transfer
them to a heatproof bowl and
cover with a plate or pan lid to
let them steam and cool
enough to be handled, at least
10 minutes. When the pobla-
nos are cool enough to handle,
use your fingers to carefully
remove and discard their
skins. Make a vertical slit from
the stem end to the tip of each
pepper. Gently remove the
seeds and stems and open the
peppers so the flesh lies flat.
Nutrition | Per serving: (about 11 / 3 cups)
based on 6: 447 calories, 33 g protein, 17
g carbohydrates, 27 g fat, 15 g saturated
fat, 224 mg cholesterol, 757 mg sodium, 3
g dietary fiber, 8 g sugar
Recipe tested by Hattie Ulan; email
questions to [email protected]SCOTT SUCHMAN FOR THE WASHINGTON POST; FOOD STYLING BY MARIE OSTROSKY FOR THE WASHINGTON POST
Patricia Janvrin’s casserole
legacy is less scandalous and
more of an inside joke. “Though
very accomplished in the kitch-
en, her only notable failure was
following the recipe for Total
Casserole (hopefully a mystery
to Google), teaching us that
recipes are guidelines, not gos-
pel,” reads Janvrin’s obituary in
the Greenville News.
The mother of three taught
each of her sons to cook such
Lithuanian specialties as hearty,
bacon-laced potato kugelis. At
Christmas, she made marzipan
and hard candies. Janvrin even
hand-rolled pastas on week-
nights. She also worked as a
butcher, breaking down whole
sides of beef and pork.
But one night, she mixed to-
gether a few cups of Total cereal,
sausage, eggs and other ingredi-
ents lost to time and memory,
and “it tasted like cardboard,”
recalls son Jeff Janvrin. “We
didn’t have a lot of money. We
didn’t waste anything. My dad
tried to convince us it was edible.
Finally, he even gave up on it.”
When the family dog, not exactly
known for its discretion, refused
to eat the casserole, the meal
became legend.
How does a dish become so
emblematic of a life that it
works itself into a final narra-
tive? For Janvrin, it was a single
disaster in a sea of fabulous
meals. Some casseroles, such as
Hendrick’s/Cavett’s, were truly
exceptional. For Willie Morris,
repetition baked itself into her
children’s taste memory. For
most, the act of making and
sharing casseroles was love
manifested and now mourned.
Lynda Finch’s epic 1,508-word
obituary tells the story of a
matriarch, genealogist extraor-
dinaire, RV enthusiast, fanatical
Christmas decorator, and her
unforgettable final meal. Last
Christmas, as distraught as they
were, the Finch family followed
the instructions Lynda left by
the oven. They finished assem-
bling the dishes she had pre-
pared for them.
“We ate that food all day,” says
Michael Finch, the middle of her
three sons. “I really believe that
was her last gift to us. We were
not going to watch that go to
waste.”
[email protected]Hatchett is a writer and senior
editor at Plate magazine and host
of the casserole-themed podcast
Cream of Caroline. She lives in New
York City.her obituary in the Clarion-
Ledger. But after Hendrick died,
at 99 and from complications of
covid-19, her daughters found
out their mother had cribbed the
casserole recipe from a friend
whose family had been miffed
about it for years. “They never
said anything directly to us, but
it was known that my mother
had taken credit for Clara
Cavett’s recipe,” says Clark. “We
were stunned.”jailed Freedom Riders. Visiting
dignitaries, professors, and
friends of friends made up a near
constant procession to her
home, often unannounced. “Peo-
ple just came, and she took them
in and fed them,” says Clark.
A fixture of those dinners was
Hendrick’s signature sweet pota-
to casserole, documented in
Jackson’s Junior League cook-
book, adopted by families all
over town and remembered inthat food was an instrument to
use.”
A master entertainer and
champion for civil rights in Jack-
son, Miss., Hendrick and her
husband, Jim, a local pediatri-
cian, helped start a dinner club
in which White and Black cou-
ples would host each other in
their homes. In the summer of
1961, she joined a group of
primly dressed church ladies
who delivered sandwiches toshe started working retail and
had three kids, she had to short-
cut things,” says daughter Angie
Girard, who remembers her
mom’s tuna noodle casserole and
a “gut bomb” beef-tater tot casse-
role that Girard’s sons now
make.
Food was never Mary Hen-
drick’s focus, either, “but it
played a part in bringing people
together,” says daughter Janet
Clark. “She probably realized“An obituary is the last public
memory we have of a person, and
in a society where we value
individuals, where everyone is
supposed to be equal, how we
remember individuals is impor-
tant,” says Janice Hume, an obit-
uary scholar and journalism pro-
fessor at the University of Geor-
gia. “Then, in aggregate, those
memories tell us something
about who we are.”
In reading each one and docu-
menting the subjects’ gender,
hometown and casserole lega-
cies, a portrait began to emerge.
Eighty-eight percent were wom-
en, seven of whom identified as
“casserole queens.” Tuna and
broccoli were the most frequent-
ly memorialized casseroles, the
former not always fondly, and
Evelyn Brooks of Edmund,
Okla., was one of four mothers
known for “mystery casseroles,
meaning the ingredients are still
unknown,” according to
Brooks’s obituary published in
the Oklahoman.
Most, but not all, of the sub-
jects were White. However, a
search for obituaries with maca-
roni and cheese or enchiladas
(casseroles by another name)
yields a richer representation of
American cooks. Before she died
at 86, Shirley Seals’s “cooking
was unmatched — especially her
macaroni and cheese,” read her
obituary in the Detroit Free
Press.
Jessica Galdiano, who died at
77, was “famous for her fantastic
chicken enchiladas, chile Colo-
rado and was one of the best
tortilla makers around,” read
her obituary in the Sacramento
Bee. She hosted enchilada par-
ties once or twice a year for
special occasions, her son Javier
Silva said in an interview. “It
was a big event. You’d get on the
phone, and say, ‘Hey, mom’s
making enchiladas.’ Everybody
came over — 20 or 30 people,
lifelong friends and family.”
Among the 49 men whose
obituaries mentioned casseroles
were potluck club member John
Verduin Jr. of Carbondale, Ill.,
and 92-year-old Vito Scigliuto of
Syracuse, N.Y., known for his
melanzana casserole (just imag-
ine him pronouncing it thick-ac-
cented as “moolinjohn”).
But it’s women, according to
Hume, who historically have
been remembered in domestic
terms and for their service to
others, a sweet spot for casserole
devotees. “It’s not to say [the
women] wouldn’t love it or that
it’s a negative, but we remember
people with our own gender
biases intact,” says Hume.
The women remembered for
their casseroles were mothers,
caregivers and volunteers. They
navigated entering the work-
place full-time — take 91-year-
old Doris Colvin of Louisville,
“an independent woman who
made the world’s best broccoli
casserole” and “the first female
to head the accounting depart-
ment at Louisville Title Insur-
ance Company,” according to her
obituary in the Courier-Journal.
Casseroles — quick to prepare,
economical, improvisational
and crowd-pleasing — helped
these busy women feed their
families and get on with living.
Born in 1937 in rural Alabama,
Willie Morris was a country cook
with a farm and kitchen garden
at her disposal. In addition to
her duties as church elder, devot-
ed poll worker, and supervisor at
the Helen Keller School, the
Talladega County native could
“whip up a ‘potato pie,’ a pan of
dressing or a squash casserole
without any thought,” read her
obituary in the Daily Home.
Quentin Morris, the youngest
of her five children, can’t recall
his mom ever referencing cook-
books or recipes, and when his
wife tried to replicate the
squash casserole — a combina-
tion of yellow squash, onion,
cream of mushroom soup,
Velveeta and possibly egg with a
Ritz cracker topping — “it wasn’t
the same,” he said in an inter-
view.
The obituary for Betty Gul-
branson, a single mom in Yaki-
ma Valley, Wash., who died at 87,
described her as a product of the
Great Depression. “Betty was
forever saving and scrimping,”
her obit read. “She earned the
title ‘container lady’ because of
her vast, yet neatly organized,
collection of butter, cool whip,
and lunchmeat tubs.... She was
also a master of stretching
meals, turning leftovers into de-
licious casseroles, soups, om-
elets, and other gastronomic
feats.”
Gulbranson fed her family in
between DIY home renovations,
nights out dancing with girl-
friends and carting kids to extra-
curriculars, and her no-fuss rep-
ertoire relied heavily upon
cream of mushroom soup and
recipes she clipped from the
backs of food packages. “When
CASSEROLES FROM E1
A casserole can create lasting memories of the cook
TOP A ND BOTTOM LEFT: E RIC SEALS, TOP R IGHT: COURTESY OF JANET CLARK; BOTTOM RIGHT: FAMILY PHOTO
The macaroni and cheese, top left, of Shirley Seals, bottom left with sons Eric and Mark, was “unmatched,” according to her obituary in the Detroit Free Press in D ecember- At top right, Mary Hendrick prepares for a party with her husband, Jim. At bottom right, Betty Gulbranson hosts an Independence Day party in 1969.