By Christmas 2024. One week after the wedding, one week after everything. I am tired in a way that is deep and good — the tiredness of a man who has done the thing he was put on earth to do and is now sitting in a lawn chair with a La Croix watching the yard recover. The string lights are still up. The folding tables are stacked. The smoker is clean. The yard still smells faintly of oak smoke and celebration.
Christmas was smaller this year — the wedding had been the big event, so Christmas was just family: me, Mai, Linh, Emma and Daniel and Ava, Lily and James (newlyweds, glowing, insufferable in the best way). Tyler and Jessica stayed in Midland with two-week-old Marcus. Tyler FaceTimed from the couch, Marcus sleeping on his chest, and said, "Merry Christmas from Midland." Mai waved at the phone and said, "Tell Marcus to eat more." Marcus is fourteen days old and weighs almost eight pounds. Mai's concern is preventive.
The food was simple: my smoked duck (the five-spice cherry wood version that has become a Christmas tradition after exactly two years), Mai's pho, and thit kho. No spread, no production. Just the foods that anchor us. We ate at my table — my table, in my house — and Ava sat in her high chair and ate pieces of duck with her fingers and said "YUMMY" which is a word she learned this month and deploys with enthusiasm for everything from duck to crackers to the taste of her own shoe.
I gave Lily and James a wedding gift: a framed photo of the Lockhart smoker being fabricated, alongside a framed photo of Mr. Clarence's original barrel smoker from the 1990s. Two smokers, forty years apart, connected by the man who learned from one and built the other. Lily looked at it for a long time. She said, "I wish I could have met him." I said, "You did. Every time you eat my brisket, you're meeting him."
Mai’s pho is not a production — it never is — but it is never casual either. The thing that separates a bowl of pho from her pho is the crispy shallots she fries at the end, golden and paper-thin, scattered on top just before the bowl hits the table. I asked her once why she bothered, given everything else she’d already done. She looked at me like I had asked why bother breathing. That Christmas, sitting at my table with the yard still smelling of oak smoke and the string lights still up, I finally understood what she meant: it’s the small thing you do on purpose, the thing that says you care about the last inch as much as the first.
Crispy Shallots
Prep Time: 5 minutes | Cook Time: 15 minutes | Total Time: 20 minutes | Servings: 8
Ingredients
- 6 large shallots, peeled and thinly sliced into rings (about 2 cups)
- 1 cup neutral oil (vegetable or avocado oil)
- 1/4 teaspoon fine sea salt
Instructions
- Slice evenly. Peel and slice shallots into thin, uniform rings — about 1/8 inch thick. Even slices are essential; uneven cuts will leave some burnt and some underdone.
- Dry thoroughly. Pat the shallot rings dry with paper towels. Any surface moisture will cause oil to spatter and slow crisping.
- Cold-start the oil. Place shallots and oil together in a small saucepan or skillet before turning on the heat. Starting them cold lets them cook gently and evenly rather than shocking in hot oil.
- Cook low and slow. Set heat to medium-low. Cook, stirring occasionally, for 12–15 minutes, until shallots turn a deep golden amber. Watch closely in the final few minutes — they can go from golden to burnt quickly.
- Drain immediately. Using a slotted spoon or spider strainer, transfer shallots to a paper-towel-lined plate the moment they hit the right color. They will continue to darken slightly off heat. Sprinkle with salt while still hot.
- Cool and store. Let cool completely before transferring to an airtight jar. They will crisp up fully as they cool. Store at room temperature for up to 2 weeks. Reserve the shallot oil — it’s excellent drizzled over rice or noodles.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 85 | Protein: 1g | Fat: 7g | Carbs: 6g | Fiber: 0g | Sodium: 75mg