By Late May, and James is packing for Columbia — not the temporary packing of a college student going home for the summer but the permanent packing of a man who is moving to a city where he will attend law school and build a life that is separate from the house on the historic district, separate from the bookshelf his father built, separate from the kitchen where his mother cooks and his grandmother sits. The separation is healthy and necessary and heartbreaking in the quiet way that necessary things are heartbreaking: not with drama but with the slow, steady ache of a house that is losing another resident to the future.
He will live in an apartment in Columbia with a law school classmate. The apartment has a kitchen. I gave him Mama's recipe for shrimp and grits, written on an index card in my handwriting, placed in the cedar recipe box that Robert built. The index card is small. The recipe is small. The love on the card is not small. The love on the card is the entire kitchen, compressed to three-by-five inches, portable, durable, the love that fits in a box that fits in a bag that fits in a car that drives four hundred miles to a new city.
Mama was present for the packing — sitting in her chair in James's room, watching the shelves empty, not understanding the emptying but sensing the shift in the house's gravity. She hummed. The humming was "Great Is Thy Faithfulness," and the hymn was the soundtrack of the departure, and the faithfulness in the title was the promise: that the family holds even when the household contracts, that the love persists even when the loved one leaves, that the kitchen will be here when he returns.
I made James's last dinner at home: shrimp and grits, his version — the one with the lemon squeeze, the one he invented at twenty when he saw his mother was tired and took over the stove. I made his version, not mine, because the dinner was for him, and the dish should be his, and the his-ness was the tribute.
The shrimp and grits recipe I wrote on that index card belongs to James now — it left with him in the cedar box, and that’s exactly where it should be. What I can offer here is the spirit of that kind of cooking: something simple, bright with lemon, made carefully and on purpose. This Grilled Dijon Fish is the recipe I keep returning to when I want a dinner that feels like intention without requiring an occasion — the kind of thing a young man with a real kitchen and a long week of reading could actually pull off, and feel proud of, four hundred miles from home.
Grilled Dijon Fish
Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 15 minutes | Total Time: 25 minutes | Servings: 4
Ingredients
- 4 white fish fillets (cod, tilapia, or mahi-mahi), about 6 oz each
- 3 tablespoons Dijon mustard
- 2 tablespoons olive oil
- 2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
- 2 cloves garlic, finely minced
- 1 tablespoon fresh flat-leaf parsley, chopped
- 1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
- 1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
- Lemon wedges, for serving
Instructions
- Mix the marinade. In a small bowl, whisk together the Dijon mustard, olive oil, lemon juice, minced garlic, salt, and pepper until smooth and fully combined.
- Coat the fish. Pat each fillet dry with a paper towel, then brush both sides generously with the Dijon mixture. Let the fish rest at room temperature for 10 minutes to absorb the flavors.
- Preheat the grill. Heat an outdoor grill or a stovetop grill pan over medium-high heat. Lightly oil the grates or pan surface to prevent sticking.
- Grill the fillets. Place fish on the grill and cook for 4 to 5 minutes per side, turning once, until the fish is opaque throughout and flakes easily when pressed with a fork. Avoid moving the fillets while they cook so they develop good grill marks.
- Finish and serve. Transfer fillets to a platter or individual plates. Sprinkle with fresh parsley and serve immediately with lemon wedges on the side.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 215 | Protein: 31g | Fat: 9g | Carbs: 2g | Fiber: 0g | Sodium: 470mg