By Christmas. The Mountain View house. The gathering: Lourdes, Angela, James, Mia (almost two, fully verbal, the vocabulary consisting of "Ate" for me, "Lola" for Lourdes, "Dada" for James, "Mama" for Angela, and "NO" for everything else — the Santos woman's first word is always a boundary). Pete (permanent, ate his standard four servings). Mark and Carmen and the twins on FaceTime (Marco and Sofia at two and a half, Sofia having learned to say "lumpia" which Lourdes considers the greatest linguistic achievement of the twenty-first century).
I gave Lourdes the manuscript. Not the published book — the manuscript, printed, bound at a copy shop, the 80,000 words that contain her recipes and her husband's recipes and her daughter's life and the kitchen floor and the kitchen table. She held it with both hands. She didn't read it — not yet, she'll read it later, in private, the reading requiring the solitude that Lourdes reserves for things that matter, the things too large for company. She held the manuscript and said, "How many pages?" I said, "Three hundred." She said, "Same as the lumpia." Same as the lumpia. The book and the lumpia. The same number. The same love. The same Santos production: three hundred units of love, wrapped and sealed, each one a piece of the whole.
Reynaldo's salmon sinigang. The Christmas memorial. One more squeeze. For Papa. For the book that carries his recipes. For the three hundred pages that are also three hundred lumpia that are also three hundred weeks that are also three hundred ways of saying: I am here. I am standing. The garlic is in the oil. Start.
Reynaldo’s salmon sinigang was always the Christmas memorial — the dish that said he was here, the dish that said we are still standing. After handing Lourdes those three hundred pages, after watching her hold the manuscript with both hands the way you hold something too large for words, I needed to cook something that matched the weight of the moment: something simple, something with fish, something that starts with garlic in hot oil and asks nothing more of you than to begin. This broiled fish — the salmon, the heat, the clean brightness of it — is the closest I can get on a page to what Papa’s sinigang tastes like in memory.
Broiled Fish
Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 12 minutes | Total Time: 22 minutes | Servings: 4
Ingredients
- 4 salmon fillets (about 6 oz each), skin-on
- 3 cloves garlic, minced
- 2 tablespoons olive oil
- 2 tablespoons soy sauce
- 1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
- 1 teaspoon fish sauce (optional, for depth)
- 1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
- 1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
- 2 green onions, thinly sliced, for garnish
- Lemon wedges, for serving
Instructions
- Preheat the broiler. Set your oven broiler to high and position the rack about 6 inches from the heating element. Line a rimmed baking sheet with foil and lightly oil the surface.
- Make the marinade. In a small bowl, whisk together the minced garlic, olive oil, soy sauce, lemon juice, fish sauce (if using), salt, and pepper until combined.
- Coat the fish. Pat the salmon fillets dry with paper towels. Place them skin-side down on the prepared baking sheet. Spoon the marinade evenly over the top of each fillet, pressing gently so it adheres.
- Broil. Slide the baking sheet under the broiler and cook for 10–12 minutes, until the tops are caramelized and slightly charred at the edges and the fish flakes easily at the thickest point. Do not flip.
- Rest and garnish. Remove from the oven and let the fillets rest for 2 minutes. Scatter sliced green onions over the top and serve immediately with lemon wedges alongside.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 310 | Protein: 34g | Fat: 17g | Carbs: 3g | Fiber: 0g | Sodium: 540mg