The season’s first pot of chili is simmering on the back of the stove, right next to a pot of Bolognese Ragù. Their mingled aromas fill the house with an oddly appetizing—if slightly schizophrenic—blending of Southern Tex-Mex and old Italy.

That commingling of cuisines is not, in my house, anything out of the ordinary: my entire adult life as a cook has been marked by a hopeless tangle of the cooking of my native country and spiritual home.

The striking thing about those two pots, however, was less how different they were than how similar. The method for assembling that homey, spicy American staple and richer and subtler—but no less homey—northern Italian one was exactly the same. It reminds me that the kind of cooking that sustains me, day in and day out, and satisfies me the most is not the exotic, the new, the “gourmet” (whatever that is supposed to mean), but the simple, everyday things that are so ingrained in my kitchen rhythms as to be almost routine.

I don’t think I’m alone in this. Many customers coming through the door have referred to the cooler weather of this past week, with a satisfied smile, as “chili weather”—and they don’t mean the temperature, either.

This fall, four chefs wanted to teach pot roast and bread pudding in a cooking class. That beef bourguignon class sold out in less than an hour. When my friend and kindred cooking spirit Bonnie Gastor called to invite guest chef Dorette Snover out to Tybee for supper a couple of weeks back, did she comb through her half-dozen food magazine subscriptions for something on the culinary cutting edge?

She did not. She whet our appetites with simply but perfectly poached local shrimp dunked in a spicy cocktail sauce that she can make blindfolded, and for the main event served up spaghetti with an enormous pot of old-fashioned American meat sauce that had been simmering all day. We dove into it and ate like there was no tomorrow.

That’s why every food magazine in America, including the soon to be extinct Gourmet, does not dare put anything on its November cover but a Thanksgiving turkey roasted to bronze perfection. The exotic and new may excite us, but in the kitchen—and in our hearts—it’s the everyday and routine that makes us happy.

Here’s a little sales secret that I probably shouldn’t share, but what the heck. Ever since I joined David and Barbara at the store, I’ve sold more Le Creuset enameled iron French ovens than I can count. Do you know what closes the sale? It is not the sturdy quality of individually sand-cast iron with its five layers of hand-applied enamel. It is not its lifetime warranty or even its virtually carefree finish. It is not the fact that Julia Child used it to make the beef bourguignon that has captured everyone’s imagination of late.

It is this phrase: “This is the most perfect pot for pot roast and chili.”

Let’s face it. We are creatures of habit, and its time we embrace the fact and admit that having those routines and habits is not always a bad thing.

The interesting thing about chili is that everyone makes it, and mostly by the same basic method, yet no two people’s chili seems to be the same. This is the way I do it. For enough chili to be worth it, I use at least a seven-and-a-quarter-quart French oven; for a crowd, I lug out a vintage flame orange thirteen-quart that belonged to Joan Cobitz.

I let it leisurely warm over medium heat rather than cranking it up to heat in a hurry, then dash in just enough olive oil to keep the beef from sticking. I then brown off about three pounds of ground chuck, in batches, crumbling it as it cooks. It not only adds fat to the pot, but infuses the oil with beefy character. The meat is lifted out with a slotted spoon and set aside in a big bowl to keep it warm.

Next a couple of large chopped onions go into the pot. When they’re golden, I add a few tablespoons of minced garlic, a generous sprinkling of crumbled dried oregano, a few tablespoons of chili powder, and a dash of chipotle chili powder for a smoky, almost bacony underpinning and kick, and stir until it is toasty and fragrant.

Then the beef goes back in the pot, gets a few turns to coat it well, and then I had a few cups of beef stock, several cups of crushed canned tomatoes, tomato paste, a spoonful or so of turbinado sugar, and (my younger brother’s secret weapon) a little tomato ketchup. Yeah, ketchup.

When it begins to bubble, I turn it down to the slowest possible simmer and let it gently cook for an hour before adding beans. I don’t care if you are from Texas; we’re in Georgia, so get over it. You don’t have to eat them. I use both pinto and dark red kidney beans, most of the time from a can because I’m not organized enough to have started dried beans before. Then I let it simmer for another hour, until it is very thick and rich.

We mostly eat it plain in my house, but when there’s company, I usually offer shredded cheddar, sliced green onions, chopped cilantro, and sour cream as accompaniments.

I’ve made a hundred such pots of chili over time, and must say, it has not bored me yet.