Herb Fish — The Body Wanted Something Warm and Simple

The light retreating noticeably. The school supplies appearing at Fred Meyer. Three twelve-hour shifts this week. The body holding.

Lourdes is 74. She is in the kitchen. She is luminous. Angela came over Saturday with the kids. We cooked. We argued about pancit proportions — she uses more soy, I use more calamansi. We are both wrong, according to Lourdes.

I made tinola Sunday. The chicken-ginger soup, the body-warming dish. The body wanted it.

I skipped the blog this week. Some weeks the kitchen is enough.

I am tired in the seasoned way. The tired is the cost of love. I have been paying the cost. The cost is bearable.

I took inventory of the freezer Sunday. The freezer had: twelve quarts of broth, eight pounds of adobo in vacuum bags, six pounds of sinigang base, fourteen lumpia trays at fifty rolls each, three pounds of marinated beef for caldereta, and a small bag of pandan leaves Tita Nening had sent me. The inventory was the proof of preparation. The preparation was the proof of love.

The therapy session this month was about pacing. Dr. Reeves said, "Grace. The pacing is the love for the future self." I am working on the pacing. The pacing is harder than the loving.

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.

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.

The neighbors invited us over for a small dinner Thursday. They are an Iñupiaq family — Aana and her grandson Joe. We ate caribou stew and rice. I brought lumpia. The kitchens of Anchorage have always been the small UN. The food is the proof.

I taught a Saturday morning Kain Na class on basic adobo proportions for new cooks. Eleven people in the kitchen. Half of them had never cooked Filipino food before. By eleven AM the kitchen smelled the way it should smell. By noon they were all eating. The eating was the lesson landing.

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.

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

I drove home Tuesday evening and the sun set at three forty-five and the highway was already iced at the bridges and the radio was on a station I did not recognize and I did not change it.

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.

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 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.

I did not make tinola for this post—tinola was Sunday, and Sunday belongs to Lourdes and the body and the quiet. But after a week like the one I just described, what I kept returning to was the idea of simplicity: something clean, something herb-forward, something that did not demand a crowd or a three-hundred-piece count. This herb fish is that thing. It is fast. It is honest. It is the kind of dish Dr. Reeves would probably call pacing—the small, sustaining meal you make for your future self at the end of a week that cost everything and gave everything back.

Herb Fish

Prep Time: 10 min | Cook Time: 15 min | Total Time: 25 min | Servings: 4

Ingredients

• 4 white fish fillets (such as cod, tilapia, or halibut), about 6 oz each
• 2 tablespoons olive oil
• 3 cloves garlic, minced
• 2 tablespoons fresh parsley, chopped
• 1 tablespoon fresh dill, chopped (or 1 teaspoon dried)
• 1 tablespoon fresh thyme leaves (or 1/2 teaspoon dried)
• 1 teaspoon lemon zest
• 2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 1/4 teaspoon black pepper
• Lemon slices, for serving

Instructions

1. Preheat the oven. Heat oven to 400°F. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper or lightly grease with cooking spray.
2. Make the herb mixture. In a small bowl, combine olive oil, garlic, parsley, dill, thyme, lemon zest, and lemon juice. Stir well to combine.
3. Season the fish. Pat fillets dry with paper towels. Arrange on the prepared baking sheet. Season both sides with salt and pepper.
4. Apply the herb coating. Spoon and spread the herb mixture evenly over the top of each fillet, pressing gently so it adheres.
5. Bake. Roast in the preheated oven for 12–15 minutes, or until the fish flakes easily with a fork and is opaque throughout. Thicker fillets may need the full 15 minutes.
6. Rest and serve. Remove from the oven and let rest 2 minutes. Serve with lemon slices alongside steamed rice or roasted vegetables.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 210 | Protein: 32g | Fat: 9g | Carbs: 2g | Fiber: 0g | Sodium: 360mg