Grilled Asian Chicken

This week I turn thirty-nine. My birthday is May 5 — Cinco de Mayo — which means I share my birthday with a holiday that most Americans think is about margaritas and that most Mexicans know is about a battle we won against the French in Puebla, which has nothing to do with Chihuahua and even less to do with margaritas, but try explaining that to a country that puts sombreros on everything in May.

This is my first birthday without Rosa being the first person to call. She always called at midnight — \"Feliz cumpleaños, mija\" — her voice thick with sleep because she woke herself up to make the call, because Rosa believed that the first voice you hear on your birthday should be the voice of the person who brought you into the world. She didn't call this year. Carmen called instead, at 6 AM, and said Rosa had tried but couldn't find the phone, which is Carmen's way of saying Rosa's vision is worse and we are all pretending it isn't.

Luis made me chilaquiles for breakfast. He got up before me — which means he got up at 2:45 AM, because I get up at 3 — and by the time I came downstairs the kitchen smelled like salsa verde and fried tortilla strips and the particular love of a man who expresses everything through cooking and nothing through words. The salsa was a little burned. I didn't say so. He was trying so hard and the trying is the gift, not the salsa.

The kids made cards. Luis Jr. wrote \"Happy Birthday Mom\" in block letters with a brief addendum: \"You're the best.\" Fifteen years old and four words is generous. Isabella wrote a paragraph about how I inspire her, in handwriting so neat it looked printed, because Isabella does everything with the precision of a surgeon, which is what I think she will become, though she says nurse, and I say whatever you want, mija, whatever you want. Sofia drew the bakery and wrote \"Panadería Rosa forever\" across the top. Diego built a birthday card out of cardboard with a hinge that opens and a spring-loaded piece that pops up — an engineering birthday card. It said \"Happy Birthday\" in three fonts he copied from the internet. Camila's card was pink. Everything Camila makes is pink. She drew me with enormous hands again. I am beginning to think this is how she actually sees me — a woman with giant bread-making hands — and honestly, that might be the most accurate portrait of me that exists.

At the bakery, Graciela surprised me with a cake — tres leches, because she asked Luis what my favorite was and Luis said tres leches, which is correct. The regular customers sang \"Las Mañanitas\" and Doña Esperanza cried, which made me cry, which made Graciela cry, and for ten minutes the bakery was just a room full of women weeping over cake, which is the most Mexican thing I can imagine.

I called Rosa in the evening. She said \"Feliz cumpleaños, mija\" and her voice was thin, like a thread being pulled through a needle, and I heard the years in it — the years of maquiladoras and tortillas and children and grief and a husband who drank — and I wanted to reach through the phone and hold her. I said: \"Mamá, when are you coming to see the bakery?\" She said: \"Soon.\" She has been saying soon for a year. I am beginning to understand that soon is Rosa's word for something she wants to be true but knows might not be.

Thirty-nine years old. Born in a cinder block house in the poorest colonia in Juárez. Now a bakery owner in El Paso. A legal resident. A mother of five. A woman whose hands know dough the way a musician's know strings. I don't know what forty will bring. I know what thirty-nine brought: a bakery with a leaky roof, five children who made me cards, a husband who burned the salsa, and a mother who is slipping away by degrees so small I can only measure them in the sound of her voice on the phone. Thirty-nine brought everything. Thirty-nine brought too much.

That week, with my mother’s voice still in my ear and thirty-nine sitting heavy on my chest, I needed to cook something that felt like ground under my feet — something that required standing over real flame and watching the char lines form with my own eyes. I didn’t want the slow patience of a braise. I wanted heat, and I wanted it fast. Grilled Asian Chicken is what I make when I need to feel the fire on my face and smell something sweet and sharp cutting through the smoke — soy and honey and ginger all burning together into something that tells me: you are here, you are cooking, you are alive. Here is how I made it.

Prep Time: 10 min | Cook Time: 10 min | Total Time: 20 min | Servings: 6

Ingredients

1/2 cup low sodium soy sauce
1/2 cup teriyaki sauce
1/4 cup honey
2 tablespoons rice vinegar (lime juice is a good swap if you don’t have rice vinegar)
2 tablespoons toasted sesame oil
2 to 4 cloves garlic, finely minced
1 to 2 teaspoons ground ginger, or to taste (fresh ginger or ginger paste may be substituted if you prefer)
1 to 2 teaspoons sriracha, or to taste (use less or omit if you’re sensitive to spicy food)
2 pounds boneless skinless chicken breasts
1 or 2 green onions, sliced into thin rounds for garnishing (optional and to taste)
Sesame seeds for garnishing (optional and to taste)

Instructions

Marinade. To a large bowl, add all soy sauce, teriyaki sauce, honey, rice vinegar, sesame oil, garlic, ginger, sriracha, whisk to combine, and remove and reserve about 1/2 cup of the marinade and set it aside. Later in Step 5 you have the option to thicken it, or use it as-is for dipping and serving. Just don’t allow it to come in contact with the raw chicken.
Marinate. Add the chicken, toss and flip to coat evenly, cover with plastic wrap, and place in the fridge to marinate for at least 1 hour; up to 6–8 hours.
Preheat. Remove the bowl from the fridge and allow it to sit at room temperature on your counter for about 15 minutes while you preheat your grill to medium-high heat. Or heat a grill pan over high heat on your stove or preheat your oven to 400F and transfer the chicken to a greased 9x12-inch baking or casserole dish.
Grill. When you’re ready to grill, oil the grill grates to prevent sticking, and place the chicken on the grill, and cook for about 5 minutes on the first side. Flip, brush with the marinade (now discard it), and grill for another 4–5 minutes on the second side, or until done. For nice grill marks, make sure your grill has been properly preheated and that you’re not starting with a cold or lukewarm grill. Chicken is done when it reaches 160F; allow it to rest on a plate for 5–10 minutes, the internal temp will rise to 165F, which is the safe temperature to consume poultry. If the chicken is sticking and doesn’t want to flip, give it another 1–2 minutes — when protein is closer to being done, it will flip and release easier than when it’s raw. Because all grills vary, temperatures vary, and the thickness of the chicken varies, grill your chicken for as long as necessary until it’s done. The minutes per side are just estimates; watch your chicken, not the clock.
Rest. Allow the chicken to rest for 5–10 minutes to lock in the juices before optionally garnishing with fresh herbs, or sprinkle red pepper flakes for more heat, and/or add salt and pepper to taste. Slice and serve with the reserved 1/2 cup sauce from Step 1. Optionally, to thicken the sauce: transfer the reserved 1/2 cup marinade from Step 1 into a small saucepan, place it on your stove, and allow it to come to a boil over medium-high heat, reduce the heat to medium-low or low, and allow the sauce to simmer gently for about 5 minutes, or until thickened as desired; stir frequently. If you’re lucky enough to have a burner on your grill, you can do this step on your grill.

Nutrition (per serving)

Grilled Asian Chicken — When Thirty-Nine Asks You to Stand at the Fire