Lemon Baked Cod — Simple, Nourishing Cooking for the Third Trimester

Thirty weeks. The baby is three pounds. The baby has eyelashes. The baby opens and closes her eyes in the womb. The baby is a person who blinks. I am carrying a person who blinks. The enormity of this — not the physical enormity, though that is also considerable — the existential enormity of growing a blinking, kicking, hiccupping human being inside my own body is something I think about every day and will never fully process. You cannot process a miracle. You can only witness it and cry in the Whole Foods parking lot, which I did on Thursday, because the baby hiccupped during a meeting and I had to leave the meeting early and I sat in my car and felt her hiccup and I cried because she was alive and I could feel her and in ten weeks she would be outside of me and I would hold her and she would blink at me with eyes that look like mine and Jisoo's and the whole long thread of women in my family.

James has been reading parenting books. He has read four in the past month. He takes notes. He highlights passages. He leaves the books on the nightstand with post-it flags sticking out like small yellow prayers. He said, "Did you know that newborns can only see eight to twelve inches away? That means the first thing Hana will focus on is our faces." He said this with wonder, as though the engineering of infant vision was the most elegant system design he had ever encountered. He is going to be a father who explains things. Hana is going to grow up knowing the distance between her face and her parents' faces, measured in inches, understood as love.

I went to Bellevue on Saturday for my weekly visit. Karen was having a good day. She had put on earrings — small gold studs that I remember from childhood, the earrings she wore to church and to parent-teacher conferences and to every event that required Karen to present herself as a woman who was managing. The earrings mean: I am still managing. I sat beside her on the couch and she put her hand on my belly. The baby kicked. Karen's eyes widened. She said, "Oh!" She said, "She's strong." I said, "She's a Park." Karen said, "She's a Chen too." I said, "She's both." Karen left her hand on my belly for a long time. Her hand trembled. The baby kicked against the trembling hand. Two rhythms — one involuntary, one volitional — pressing against each other through my skin. Grandmother and granddaughter, meeting through the wall of my body.

Kevin called Sunday. He said he and Lisa are going to drive up for the birth. He said, "I want to be there. Not in the room. Obviously not in the room. But in the waiting area. Or the parking lot. Or Seattle. I just want to be in the same city when my niece arrives." I said, "Kevin. You are going to be in the same city." He said, "Good. I'll bring coffee." He will bring coffee. He will bring the best coffee in Portland. Hana's first day on earth will smell like Bridge City Roasters single-origin Ethiopia. There are worse ways to enter the world.

The recipe this week is a Korean braised tofu — dubu-jorim — that I made on Sunday because it is warm and protein-rich and takes twenty minutes, which is about the maximum amount of effort my body allows at thirty weeks pregnant. Firm tofu, sliced into rectangles, pan-fried until golden on both sides. Sauce: soy sauce, gochugaru, garlic, scallions, sesame oil, a pinch of sugar, a splash of water. Pour the sauce over the tofu. Simmer for five minutes until the sauce thickens and glazes the tofu. Serve over rice. The tofu is crispy outside, soft inside, coated in a sweet-spicy-savory glaze. It is a twenty-minute dish that tastes like an hour's work. It is the dish of the third trimester: maximum flavor, minimum standing time. My feet thank me. Hana does not comment.

The theme of this whole season has been doing the most with the least — maximum feeling, minimum output — and that extends to how I’m cooking. Hana demands protein; my feet demand I sit down; and the version of me that used to spend a Sunday afternoon on elaborate dinners has temporarily left the building. This lemon baked cod became a weeknight anchor for exactly that reason: ten minutes of hands-on time, one pan, a bright clean flavor that tastes nothing like something you made mostly while sitting at the kitchen counter. It paired beautifully with rice alongside the dubu-jorim I mentioned, but it holds its own on a plate with whatever roasted vegetable you can manage to throw in the oven at the same time.

Lemon Baked Cod

Prep Time: 10 min | Cook Time: 18 min | Total Time: 28 min | Servings: 4

Ingredients

• 4 cod fillets (about 6 oz each), patted dry
• 3 tablespoons olive oil
• 3 tablespoons fresh lemon juice (from 1 large lemon)
• 1 teaspoon lemon zest
• 3 cloves garlic, minced
• 1 teaspoon dried oregano
• 1/2 teaspoon dried thyme
• 1/2 teaspoon kosher salt, plus more to taste
• 1/4 teaspoon black pepper
• 2 tablespoons fresh flat-leaf parsley, roughly chopped
• Thin lemon slices, for serving

Instructions

1. Preheat the oven. Set oven to 400°F. Lightly grease a 9x13-inch baking dish with a drizzle of olive oil.
2. Make the lemon-herb sauce. In a small bowl, whisk together the olive oil, lemon juice, lemon zest, minced garlic, oregano, and thyme until combined.
3. Arrange and coat the fish. Place the cod fillets in a single layer in the prepared baking dish. Pour the lemon-herb mixture evenly over the fillets. Season generously with salt and pepper. Lay a few lemon slices over the top if desired.
4. Bake. Transfer to the oven and bake uncovered for 16–18 minutes, until the fish is opaque throughout and flakes easily with a fork. Thicker fillets may need the full 18 minutes.
5. Rest and garnish. Remove from the oven and let rest for 2 minutes. Scatter fresh parsley over the top and serve immediately, spooning any pan juices over the fillets.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 225 | Protein: 34g | Fat: 9g | Carbs: 2g | Fiber: 0g | Sodium: 370mg