The concept of a favorite meal has always been a challenge for me. Though I like just about all kinds of food, it’s been hard to pin down just one food, and if pressed I’d answer most likely “pizza” or “spaghetti” or something else painfully generic, while of course privately trying to recollect what indeed my favorite meal actually would be. Would it be a certain plate of escargot, with liquid butter permeating the little snail, or would it be a certain plate of sushi, perhaps steak tartare? Maybe a spatchcock chicken, or perhaps simply a really tasty bowl of papadum. Goodness if I know. While I still have a very hard time identifying one meal as my favorite, I do have a favorite home cooked meal, no second guesses or meandering mental tangents required.
The meal in question is a dish my father started making in the year 2016. To the best of both our memories, we would estimate it was first prepared in the month of either January or February, that time of year that is uniquely beautiful in its way, but can also be dangerously soul crushing, with an oppressive cold filling the air, the ground alternating between stark white, muddy brown, or a little of both, and the sun refuses to make its presence known, spending such a short time over the cold earth that you almost get the impression that if you blink, you’ll miss it. Indeed, a profoundly dreary time of year. But, that doesn’t mean you can’t create your own life, your own little slice of sunshine. Enter the rice dish. Indeed, when I asked my father the name of it, he also simply referred to it as “the rice dish”. But just because of an unassuming and remarkably forgettable name, doesn’t mean that it is any less powerful and memorable. In an effort to create something both healthy and tasty during this rather lamentable time of year, my father went out to the store, like any other time he does, but the store was rather picked over, and the store was looking barren as far as already prepared, or nearly ready food options go. So, he decided to, as he said, “see what he could make.” The rest was history. He had not only succeeded in creating a dish that was both tasty and healthy, he had created something with a truly unique and powerful flavor that one just has a hard time getting enough of, as well as something that is fortunately quite easy to replicate. Each time he serves it, it is a slightly different meal, though it consists of a core of rice, ginger, soy sauce, mango or pineapple, generally spicy peppers, tofu and basil, which give a fair amount of room to push around and make subtle changes without breaking the base of it. So every single dish is never quite the same, almost like a snowflake or a firework in that way. When I shared that sentiment with him, he chuckled and said “I suppose it is something along those lines!” It’s not a real glamorous meal, nor is it a recipe that’s been passed down from generation to generation, and it’s hardly one that would’ve not only happened but happened regularly if we didn’t live quite close to several grocery stores. But the effort, care and taste make it ultimately my favorite home cooked meal and quite possibly my most favorite meal.
Alongside that, however, is that this meal is truly more than a meal. The meal did actually teach a lesson of sorts. At my house, prior to this meal, almost all of the cooking was done by my mother. It was just the way it was. Sometimes my dad would throw together a meal here or there, but it was a rather rare occurrence, and generally it was more a snack or something along those lines. Sure, my dad had made my school lunches sometimes, and he would prepare things for cooking, but he would rarely actually make the meals himself. But since my mom was out of town for a month or so at that time, he had to make a few dinners so that we would stay nice and fed. So, he started cooking more. At first, he would use pretty simple and straightforward recipes to create a nice meal. Then, he started making more complicated dishes as he got himself warmed up more and more. Then, he started improvising, peeking at a recipe book for a couple ideas here and there but mostly making his own thing entirely. But it was a slow process, with quite a few take out meals and frozen dishes taking up the bulk of our meals. But then he grew more confident. More and more confident. Then, lo and behold, a rice dish he had never made before. It was so delicious, we had to call my mom and tell her about it. So, when she got back home, he made it for her, and she adored it just as much as we did. So he started cooking more and more meals, to the point where they really do each make about fifty percent each, permanently changing the dynamic in our kitchen. When I asked him about it, he mentioned that he used to make more meals in the past, both for himself and for my mom and him. But after I was born, routines changed and he fell out of the habit. As he said, “we just divided up our roles, and, well, the kitchen became your mother’s domain.” It’s strange how changes really can alter more than just what is obvious, and can have effects that one wouldn’t even think of happening. So the fact that it got my dad cooking again also contributes to it being my favorite meal.
Meals are strange like that. Rarely does their meaning end at the ingredient’s put into them. They become a work of art that anyone can make, a heirloom that can be created by all, with enough care. Perhaps someday, sooner rather than later, I too can learn precisely what the collection of ingredients is so I may cook it for myself, and maybe even a further time down the road hand it down to another generation, creating a culinary legend from an improvised mess of food.
