By Tyler called Tuesday. Jessica is pregnant. Due in December. He said, "Dad, I'm going to be a father." I said, "Yes, you are." He was quiet for a second. Then he said, "How do you do it?" I said, "You show up. Every day. You show up." He said, "That's it?" I said, "That's the hardest thing you'll ever do, and it's the only thing that matters. Show up, be present, love them louder than your fear." He said, "Did you just come up with that?" I said, "I've had fifteen years of sobriety to come up with that." He laughed. But I could hear the fear in it. The good fear. The fear that means you care enough to be scared.
Tyler and Jessica aren't telling people yet — it's early, six weeks. But they told me and they told Mai. Mai said, "Another great-grandchild." She said it the way she says most things: matter-of-factly, as if the universe is simply confirming something she already knew. Then she said, "Tell Tyler to eat better." This is Mai's primary concern for all human beings at all times: are they eating well enough? The answer, in Mai's assessment, is always no.
I now have two enormous secrets: Huong's visit details (the family knows she's coming but not the specifics of the welcome feast Mai is planning) and Tyler's pregnancy news. My chest is going to explode. I went to the AA meeting Tuesday and sat in my usual chair and said nothing about any of it because some things are not for the meeting room, they're for the back porch with a La Croix and the stars.
Made a batch of Vietnamese caramelized ginger chicken — gà kho gừng — which is the weeknight comfort food I return to when the world is too full and I need something simple. Chicken thighs, sliced ginger, shallots, fish sauce, sugar, coconut water. Braised for forty-five minutes until the sauce is dark and sticky and the chicken is tender enough to cut with a spoon. Served over rice. Eaten in silence. Sometimes silence is the recipe. Sometimes you've said enough for one week and the food says the rest.
A week this full — Tyler’s news, Mai’s quiet certainty, the secrets sitting heavy in my chest — calls for the simplest food I know. I’d already made the ginger chicken earlier in the week, and when Saturday morning came around and I needed to do something with my hands without thinking too hard, I pulled out the carrots. Carrot bacon sounds like a joke until you make it and realize it isn’t: smoky, sweet at the edges, crisp enough to matter. Mai would approve of the frugality. I approve of the silence it lets you keep.
Carrot Bacon
Prep Time: 10 min | Cook Time: 20 min | Total Time: 30 min | Servings: 4
Ingredients
- 3 large carrots, peeled
- 2 tablespoons soy sauce or tamari
- 1 tablespoon maple syrup
- 1 teaspoon smoked paprika
- 1/2 teaspoon garlic powder
- 1/4 teaspoon black pepper
- 1 tablespoon olive oil or neutral oil
Instructions
- Slice the carrots. Using a vegetable peeler or a sharp knife, slice the carrots into long, thin ribbons or strips, roughly 1/8-inch thick. Thinner strips will crisp up more; thicker ones will stay slightly chewy.
- Make the marinade. In a shallow bowl or zip-lock bag, whisk together the soy sauce, maple syrup, smoked paprika, garlic powder, black pepper, and oil until combined.
- Marinate. Add the carrot strips to the marinade and toss to coat evenly. Let sit for at least 5 minutes, or up to 30 minutes if you have the time.
- Cook. Heat a large skillet or griddle over medium-high heat. Working in batches if needed, lay the carrot strips in a single layer. Cook for 3–4 minutes per side, until the edges are dark, caramelized, and slightly crisp. Do not crowd the pan.
- Drain and serve. Transfer to a paper-towel-lined plate. Serve immediately alongside eggs, rice, sandwiches, or whatever needs a little something smoky and simple beside it.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 65 | Protein: 1g | Fat: 3g | Carbs: 9g | Fiber: 1g | Sodium: 420mg