Crab-Stuffed Catfish

The light at twenty hours. The midnight sun on the inlet silver. Two trauma cases stayed with me through the weekend. I cooked through them.

Lourdes is 74. She is in the kitchen. She is luminous.

I made kinilaw Saturday — the Filipino ceviche. Salmon, vinegar, ginger, chili. The fish was Joseph's.

I wrote the blog post Friday night at the kitchen table while Reyna napped on the couch. The post was short. The post was honest.

Pete texted me Saturday. He retired three years ago. He still texts me Saturday. The friendship is the broth.

The Filipino Community newsletter announced a fundraiser for typhoon relief in Samar. I committed to making three hundred lumpia. The number is the number. The number has always been the number. Three hundred is what I make. The math has stopped surprising me.

A blog reader sent me a photograph of her grandmother's wooden mortar and pestle, used since 1962. The photograph was holy. I wrote her back. The writing back is the work.

Auntie Norma called Sunday afternoon. She is now seventy-nine. She wanted a recipe. I gave it to her. She wanted to know how my week was. I told her, briefly. She told me about her week. The exchange took eighteen minutes. The eighteen minutes was the keeping.

I read a chapter of a novel before bed each night this week. The novel was about a Filipina nurse in California. The novel was good. The novel was, in some way, my own life adjacent.

I cleaned the kitchen Sunday afternoon. I wiped the stove. I scrubbed the sink. I reorganized the spice cabinet. The cleaning was the small reset. The reset was the marker. The marker said: the week is over, the next week begins, the kitchen is ready.

The Anchorage sky was the Anchorage sky. The mountains were the mountains. The inlet was the inlet. The geography was the geography.

A reader from New Jersey wrote in about her grandmother's adobo, which used pineapple. I had never heard of pineapple in adobo. I tried it. It was strange. It was also good. The strange and the good are not opposites.

I made tea late at night. The tea was the small comfort. The comfort was the marker.

I made coffee at six AM. The coffee was the start. The start was always the same.

Pete and I had a long phone conversation Tuesday. We talked about the family — his and mine. The talking was the keeping.

The Filipino Community newsletter announced the Saturday gathering. I will be on lumpia duty. I am always on lumpia duty.

The grocery store had no calamansi. I substituted lime. The substitution was acceptable. The acceptable is the working version of perfect.

I had a long phone call with Dr. Reeves on Wednesday. We talked about pacing and rest and the way the body keeps a log of what it has carried. Dr. Reeves said, "Grace. The body remembers. The mind forgets. The cooking is the bridge." I wrote the line down. The line is now on a sticky note above the kitchen sink.

I checked email at the kitchen table while the rice cooked. There were one hundred and twenty unread messages. I closed the laptop. The unread can wait.

I drove the Glenn Highway out to Eklutna on Saturday. The mountains were the mountains. The lake was the lake. The body needed the open road. The open road did its work.

I took a walk on the coastal trail Saturday. The light was good. The body was tired but moving.

The break room had cake Tuesday. Someone's birthday. We ate the cake. We did not ask whose birthday. The cake was the cake.

The kinilaw I made that Saturday — salmon, vinegar, ginger, chili — was the right dish for the right moment, but it was the fish itself I kept thinking about, the fact that it came from Joseph, the fact that fresh catch shared between people is already most of the recipe. Crab-stuffed catfish carries that same idea: seafood that asks you to slow down and pay attention, to treat the fish as something worth honoring rather than just filling a plate. After a week of two trauma cases, three hundred lumpia on the horizon, and Dr. Reeves’ line still drying on a sticky note above the sink, this was the kind of cooking that felt like the bridge he described — the body remembering, the hands doing their work.

Prep Time: 20 min | Cook Time: 25 min | Total Time: 45 min | Servings: 4

Ingredients

4 catfish fillets (about 6 oz each)
6 oz lump crab meat, drained and picked over
1/4 cup cream cheese, softened
2 tablespoons mayonnaise
2 green onions, thinly sliced
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
1 teaspoon Old Bay seasoning
1/2 teaspoon garlic powder
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon olive oil
Lemon wedges, for serving
Fresh parsley, chopped, for garnish

Instructions

Preheat oven. Heat oven to 375°F. Lightly grease a baking dish large enough to hold all four fillets in a single layer.
Make the crab filling. In a medium bowl, combine crab meat, cream cheese, mayonnaise, green onions, lemon juice, Old Bay seasoning, garlic powder, salt, and pepper. Mix gently until just combined — you want to keep some texture in the crab.
Prepare the fillets. Pat catfish fillets dry with paper towels. Lay them flat and season lightly with salt and pepper on both sides. If fillets are thick, use a sharp knife to cut a shallow pocket lengthwise down the center of each one.
Stuff the fish. Divide the crab filling evenly among the four fillets, spooning it into the pocket or mounding it along the center. Fold the thinner end of the fillet over the filling if possible, or leave open-faced.
Oil and bake. Drizzle olive oil over the tops of the stuffed fillets. Transfer to the prepared baking dish and bake for 22–25 minutes, until the fish flakes easily with a fork and the filling is heated through and lightly golden at the edges.
Rest and serve. Let the fillets rest two minutes before plating. Garnish with chopped parsley and serve with lemon wedges on the side.

Nutrition (per serving)

Crab-Stuffed Catfish — The Fish Is Joseph’s, The Kitchen Is Mine