Asian Turkey Lettuce Wraps

Two weeks. Hana is two weeks old. She weighs eight pounds now — up from her birth weight, which Dr. Hernandez says is "excellent." I said, "She is eating constantly." Dr. Hernandez said, "That is what babies do." James said, "She eats like a Park-Chen. With enthusiasm and no regard for schedule." He is not wrong. Hana eats when she wants to eat, which is approximately every ninety minutes, day and night, with no distinction between the two, because time is a human construct and Hana is a two-week-old revolutionary who does not recognize human constructs.

Breastfeeding is — I am going to be honest — harder than I expected. Not the mechanics (the lactation consultant at Swedish was patient and helpful) but the relentlessness of it, the way your body becomes a food source, the way you are never not available, never not on call, never not producing. I understand now why Grace's miyeokguk is so important — the body that is feeding a baby needs to be fed itself, needs the iron and the iodine and the protein and the steady, warm replenishment of soup after soup after soup. I am eating. I am eating constantly. I am eating for two in a way that is more literal and more exhausting than anything I experienced during pregnancy.

James went back to work on Monday. His two weeks of paternity leave ended and he returned to Microsoft and I was alone with Hana for the first time and the apartment was very quiet and the quiet was different from the loneliness of seven years ago in this same condo. That loneliness was empty. This quiet is full — full of Hana's breathing, Hana's small sounds, the creak of the crib, the hum of the white noise machine. Full of a person who did not exist a month ago and now exists more than anything else in my life.

I called Jisoo on Wednesday — our midweek call. She asked about breastfeeding. I told her it was hard. She said, "I breastfed you for ten days." The sentence hit me like a physical thing. Ten days. Jisoo breastfed me for ten days before I was taken to the adoption society. Ten days of her body feeding my body. Ten days that I have no memory of but that my body, in some cellular way, might remember. I said, "Umma. I didn't know that." She said, "They let me keep you for ten days. I fed you. I held you. I sang to you. Then they came and took you and I could not stop them because I was seventeen and I had no money and my parents said I had to." She was crying. I was crying. Hana was sleeping in the crib. Three women — grandmother, mother, granddaughter — connected by breastfeeding and tears and the particular pain of being separated and the particular joy of being found. I said, "You fed me for ten days. And now I am feeding your granddaughter." She said, "The milk continues." She said, "The milk is the thread."

The recipe this week is a simple egg-drop soup that James makes me at midnight when I am awake for a feeding and too tired to make anything myself. Chicken stock, heated to a simmer. Two eggs, whisked, poured in a thin stream while stirring gently. The eggs form soft ribbons in the broth. A splash of soy sauce. A drizzle of sesame oil. Sliced scallions. The soup takes four minutes. James makes it with his eyes half-closed, in pajamas, standing at the stove at 12:30 AM, while I sit on the couch with Hana latched on and the white noise machine humming and the city sleeping around us. The soup arrives in a mug. I drink it one-handed. It is the most nourishing four-minute meal in the world. It is the recipe for the middle of the night. It is the recipe for the first month of a life.

James has the midnight soup covered — he materializes at the stove in pajamas and delivers a mug of egg-drop broth before I even have to ask. But the afternoons are mine alone, Hana finally napping in her white noise cocoon, and I am ravenous in the particular desperate way of someone who has been feeding another human being for six hours straight. These Asian turkey lettuce wraps are what I reach for then: the flavors of soy and sesame and ginger that are already running through this whole season of my life, assembled fast enough that I can eat before she wakes. They feel, in some small way, like a continuation of the same thread — the same flavors that are in that midnight mug, just in a form I can hold in one hand while I listen for the first sounds from the crib.

Prep Time: 10 min | Cook Time: 15 min | Total Time: 25 min | Servings: 4

Ingredients

1 lb ground turkey
1 head butter or iceberg lettuce, leaves separated
3 tablespoons hoisin sauce
2 tablespoons low-sodium soy sauce
1 tablespoon rice vinegar
1 teaspoon sesame oil
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 teaspoon fresh ginger, grated
1 (8 oz) can water chestnuts, drained and finely chopped
3 scallions, thinly sliced
1 tablespoon neutral oil (such as avocado or canola)
1 teaspoon sriracha or chili garlic sauce (optional)
Sesame seeds, for garnish

Instructions

Make the sauce. In a small bowl, whisk together the hoisin sauce, soy sauce, rice vinegar, sesame oil, and sriracha if using. Set aside.
Cook the turkey. Heat the neutral oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat. Add the garlic and ginger and cook, stirring, for about 30 seconds until fragrant. Add the ground turkey and cook, breaking it up with a spoon, until fully cooked through and no pink remains, about 8–10 minutes.
Add the filling. Pour the sauce over the cooked turkey and stir to coat evenly. Add the chopped water chestnuts and half the scallions. Stir and cook for another 2 minutes until everything is heated through and well combined.
Assemble. Spoon the turkey mixture into individual lettuce cups. Top with the remaining scallions and a sprinkle of sesame seeds. Serve immediately.

Nutrition (per serving)

Asian Turkey Lettuce Wraps — The Recipe That Got Me Through the Afternoons