Apricot Kielbasa Slices

September. The month of the book. Two Kitchens: On Being Neither and Both is published. The larger press, the national distribution, the book in airports and bookstores and the kind of stores where people who have never heard of me will see the cover — a photograph of two sets of hands on a counter, one pair making miso soup, one pair making meatloaf, the two kitchens visible in a single image — and pick it up and read the first sentence and keep reading.

Publication day was a Tuesday. I made miso soup at five AM, the way I make miso soup every morning, the way I made it when the first book was published, the way I will make it every morning until I cannot. The practice does not acknowledge publication days. The practice acknowledges only: the kombu is soaked. The dashi is heated. The miso is dissolved. The bowl is held. The morning begins.

The Powell's reading was larger than the first book's — one hundred people, the room full, the stage bright, the microphone hot. I read from the Barbara chapter — the meatloaf chapter, the American kitchen, the loud mother. The audience laughed. The laughter was the warmth. Then I read from the Fumiko chapter — the miso soup chapter, the quiet grandmother. The audience was quiet. The quiet was the love. The two chapters, the two responses — laughter and quiet — were the two kitchens, the two tones, the two sides of the neither-and-both. The book is the bridge between the laughter and the quiet. The bridge is me.

After the reading, I served onigiri and meatloaf sliders. Two foods. Two kitchens. Two traditions. One table. The audience ate both and the eating was the reading completed, the tasting was the understanding deepened, the food was the book consumed in a different form. The book is words. The food is the words made edible. Both are the practice. Both are the life.

When I planned the post-reading spread at Powell’s, I wanted two foods that could sit side by side without competing — the onigiri speaking quietly for one kitchen, and something warm and glossy and a little celebratory speaking for the other. These apricot kielbasa slices were what I reached for: sweet, smoky, easy to pick up in one hand while you hold a book in the other, and the kind of thing that disappears from a tray before you’ve had a chance to set it down. The apricot glaze has that same quality as Barbara’s kitchen — loud in the best way, generous, unapologetic — and it earned its place on the table beside the quiet of the rice.

Prep Time: 10 min | Cook Time: 20 min | Total Time: 30 min | Servings: 12

Ingredients

1 lb smoked kielbasa sausage, cut into 1/2-inch rounds
1 cup apricot preserves
2 tablespoons Dijon mustard
1 tablespoon brown sugar
1 tablespoon apple cider vinegar
1/4 teaspoon garlic powder
1/4 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes (optional)
1 tablespoon neutral oil

Instructions

Sear the kielbasa. Heat oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat. Add kielbasa slices in a single layer and cook 2–3 minutes per side until lightly browned. Work in batches if needed. Transfer to a plate.
Make the glaze. Reduce heat to medium. In the same skillet, combine apricot preserves, Dijon mustard, brown sugar, apple cider vinegar, and garlic powder. Stir until smooth and heated through, about 2 minutes.
Glaze and simmer. Return kielbasa slices to the skillet. Toss to coat evenly in the glaze. Simmer over medium-low heat for 8–10 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the glaze thickens and clings to the slices. Add red pepper flakes if using.
Serve. Transfer to a serving platter or keep warm in a slow cooker on the low setting. Provide toothpicks for easy serving. Best served warm.

Nutrition (per serving)

Apricot Kielbasa Slices — The Two-Table Bite That Brought the Reading Home