Much like all of you, my mind is swirling with a lot lately. As I sit here, in my bright little house on this quiet little street perched on the edge of a bay that gives way to the wide expanse of ocean beyond, it occurs to me once again what a strange juxtaposition this year (and this era) has been—more than ever, we’re all cocooned in, and anchored to, our own tiny individual orbits. And yet we’re so connected—digitally—to the world at large that it almost feels like we’re all sitting in a room together, shoulder to shoulder, watching each news story unfold live and in person right in front of us, turning to each other to commentate and opine and speculate.
Perhaps it’s a more amplified version of the odd yet incredible sensation that I’m still weirdly not used to (I likely never will be): the feeling that I can walk down the street texting with a friend in California, and moments later hear the phone ring and her voice chatting away in my ear, as if she’s tucked in my pocket. As if the entire world, far flung as it is, is tucked in my pocket. As if nothing is far away at all, even as I walk alone on a silent and windy path past the boats bobbing in this remote marina on this narrow spit of land.
This makes me feel both connected and lonely in rapid succession. Sometimes it makes me feel a little unmoored, like I have no sense of being grounded in my own life because I’m touching all these live wires that extend from other places.
(This is to say nothing of the intense, constant presence of the news cycle which is a topic in and of itself.)
But, you know, there are the obvious things to do. I put my phone away. I take a run. I focus on picking my knees up and touching down more lightly on my toes, speeding up then slowing down, continually tugging my fleece hat over my ears. I spin the volume dial higher when Nicki Minaj comes on my Apple Watch singing “Chun-Li”, then “Stir Fry” by Migos then “Un Dia” by Dua Lipa and J Balvin (and yes my running playlist lately is fire, as the kids say).
I turn my mind to concrete things: the scritch-swoop-scratch of ink from a felt-tipped pen on creamy Crane stationery as I write a thank you note. The hissing and popping of the radiator as the heat kicks on. The smoky, woodsy smell hanging in the air outside from the fire pit in the backyard. The mild but dully persistent pressure of a headache beginning just above my eyes.
I look around, cataloging things in view. Just taking in where I am right now. The red and white FRAGILE stickers stamped in neat rows on a stack of boxes in the corner of the front room—each box filled with large scalloped floor tiles made up of fanned arcs of smaller tiles—ready to be installed in the front vestibule, where there now lies a deep trench and a pile of debris and broken brick. Nothing like a little essential renovation to keep your house from collapsing, right?
A woven basket in the corner holding a stack of old magazines, the two at the very top (Bon Appetit April 2002 and Gourmet February 2004) threatening to slide off onto the white-washed plank floor. A man walking his two dogs on the street outside, stopping to scratch the larger one gently behind the ears.
A low wooden bowl filled with white-tipped pine cones. The slim, gossamer-thin arc of the delicate gold ring on my right hand that catches the light as I type.
I hear the espresso machine buzzing from the kitchen over strains of Debussy that’s playing on the kitchen speakers. The baby monitor is starting to crackle, meaning soon I’ll hear either a low wail that accelerates at a rapid clip, or a series of giggles that rise like bubbles above the crib as he figures out how to pull himself to stand, smacking the railing like an adorably over-enthusiastic drummer.
I scoop him up, kissing his soft neck and his fingers, feeling him warm and solid against my chest, just for a moment as he wakes. (As it turns out, 10-month-olds are surprisingly not cuddly beings; they prefer to climb everything in sight, press their palms into your face, and kick their legs wildly in midair.)
Like most afternoons, the moment catches me up in it — I can’t think about everything or anything else for the next while. The physicality of parenthood is breathtaking: I’m constantly in motion, or watching and guarding a tiny body in motion.
The kitchen is a good spot: bright lights and plenty of clattering of dishes and new smells and warm air. He watches me as I make dinner. I stir rice together with spices and water in my small Staub enameled pot. I slice tofu into cubes, my knife sliding against the soft, slick sides of it, turning rounded edges into satisfyingly precise straight lines.
I cook onions in oil, watching them soften and sizzle, then scoop in peas and roasted red peppers. I pile in the cooked rice, the crisp browned tofu, thinly sliced scallions. I add coriander. Fresh ginger. Orange juice. A squeeze of lemon. A pinch of cayenne. A shower of fresh cilantro. Crispy fried shallots.
The kitchen smells hotly fragrant now, and it’s getting dusky outside. When I walk down the street to watch the sunset fade to blue, I turn around and see the house glowing like a lamp from within. I step into into the rush of warmth and bedtime and home.
Note: The recipe below makes more fried shallots than you’ll need—I usually use about 2 tablespoons per bowl of rice—but since it’s a bit labor intensive to make them, I prefer to do a larger batch at once. You could even double the amounts if you like. They’ll keep well for about 5 days and they’re great on top of salads or any kind of soup or…okay, on pretty much everything. Rice! Pasta! Meat! Savory oatmeal! In sandwiches! You get the point. You can also skip them altogether and just use something else for crunch, like chopped roasted nuts or even some kind of chip or crispy snack.
Also, I use roasted red peppers and peas here, but you can be very flexible with the vegetables! Bell peppers, zucchini, mushrooms, broccoli, chopped kale, carrots…all would be excellent. Just be sure to cook them enough so that they just begin to soften but retain some bite—adjust cooking time accordingly.
And finally, I’m using tofu here, but feel free to swap the protein: chicken, shrimp, steak, etc. would all be excellent. I mean, what isn’t good with rice? Nothing, that is what.
**Note that traditional biryani is far more complex than this recipe: it’s made by layering seasoned rice with protein and cooked it all pressed together—I’ve just taken a cue from the spices and flavors of it here. Mastering the traditional recipe is a work in progress for me!
Gingered Biryani-Style Tofu
Serves 2
For the fried shallots
1 pound (about 8 medium) shallots, sliced very thinly (ideally with a mandoline)
2 cups (454g) vegetable oil
For the rest
1 cup basmati rice
1/4 teaspoon turmeric
1/4 teaspoon cardamom
1/4 teaspoon ground coriander
1/4 teaspoon cumin
1/4 teaspoon garam masala
Pinch of Aleppo chile flakes (you can sub sweet paprika + cayenne if you don’t have it)
1/8 teaspoon nutmeg
1 dried bay leaf
14 ounces firm or extra-firm tofu, patted dry and cut into 1/2” cubes
1/2 cup roasted red peppers, roughly chopped
3/4 cup sweet peas
3 scallions, thinly sliced
1/2 cup orange juice
juice of 1 lemon
One 2” piece of fresh ginger, peeled and minced
1/2 teaspoon ground coriander
1/2 cup roughly chopped fresh cilantro
To make the fried shallots: Place the sliced shallots in a large pot. Have a large plate or baking sheet lined with paper towels at the ready, as well as a sieve or strainer. Add the vegetable oil and bring to a boil over high heat, stirring constantly, until the shallots turn a light golden brown—this should take about 10 minutes. Immediately pour them into the strainer, shaking slightly to remove as much oil as possible, then transfer them to the paper towel-lined plate. Season lightly with salt and blot them gently to remove as much oil as possible. Set aside to cool.
To make the rest: Place the rice, turmeric, cardamom, ground coriander, cumin, garam masala, Aleppo Chile, nutmeg, and bay leaf in a medium pot (ideally a heavy-bottomed one) and add 2 cups of water. Bring to a boil, then reduce to a low simmer, cover, and cook for 15 to 20 minutes, or until the liquid is just about absorbed. Fluff with a fork, then cover and set aside.
In a large skillet, add a tablespoon or two of oil (I like olive oil), and add the cubed tofu. Season with salt and pepper and cook, stirring occasionally, until the tofu is starting to brown.
Add the red peppers, peas, and scallions and cook for a minute or two.
Add the cooked rice, orange juice, lemon juice, ginger, and coriander and cook for a few minutes until the sauce starts to thicken.
Remove from the heat and stir in the chopped cilantro.
Divide between bowls and top with as many fried shallots as you like (BY WHICH I MEAN A LOT OF THEM).