Malai Kofta — The Ritual of Making Something Rich When the Year Begins Again

The first week of 2022. New Year's Eve we spent at home. James made dumplings and I made tteokguk — the traditional Korean new year's rice cake soup, which you eat on January 1st to age one year (in the Korean counting of ages, you get a year older at the new year, not on your birthday). I ate it on January 1. I am twenty-nine now in Korean age, or I would be if I had not been twenty-eight in Korean age yesterday. I have lost track of which age I am in which system. I am going to say I am twenty-eight in the American way and leave the Korean ages to the Koreans.

Jisoo wrote me this week: "Happy New Year, my daughter. I ate tteokguk for both of us. I made extra for my husband and also set a small bowl on the kitchen counter for you, even though you were not here." I read that line and I thought: this is what I have been missing. Not the soup. The setting of a small bowl on a kitchen counter for the missing child. The ritual acknowledgment of absence. Karen and David did not know to do this. They could not have known to do this. Jisoo knows to do this. Both mothers did their best with what they had.

I wrote Jisoo back and told her that James and I had booked flights for May — we are coming to Busan for two weeks in late May and early June. She did not write back for a day. When she did, she wrote: "I have been waiting for this year for twenty-eight years. It is five months away. I can wait five months. I will count them." I will count them too. I am already counting them.

Work: the new year at Amazon is brutal. My calendar filled up Monday morning. The Q1 launch plan is aggressive. Priya kicked off the year with a three-hour offsite-adjacent planning meeting that I attended via Zoom from the dining-room-office and emerged from shaking in a way that felt unearned. I had forgotten, over the holidays, how much of my job is meetings. The meetings are killing me slowly. I told James this on Friday. He said, "You need to make a decision about this eventually." I said, "I know." He said, "Not now. But eventually." I said, "I know." I know.

Dr. Yoon is back next week. I have a lot saved up for her.

Karen had a fall on Tuesday. Not serious. She caught herself on the counter. Her walker was in the other room. David had an ongoing list of fixes he is trying to make to the house — handrails in the bathroom, grab bars by the bed, a walker in every room — but the process is slower than the progression of the disease. I suggested to David that he hire someone to do the fixes all at once, and he agreed. A handyman is coming next week. David does not ask for help. This is the first time in my memory he has hired someone to do a home project. I see it as a marker. The marker is not good. But it is reasonable.

I made doenjang jjigae on Saturday for lunch. My weekly metronome. It tasted the way it always tastes. It tasted like everything that happened last year. It tasted like everything that is coming this year. It tasted like the kitchen I have built for myself out of Jisoo's recipes and Karen's pie crust and James's Taiwanese stock and twenty-eight years of unraveling and re-weaving. A good stew tastes like a whole life at once. This one did.

The recipe this week is tteokguk — the rice cake soup — made on New Year's Day the Korean way. Beef broth, sliced rice cakes, egg, dried seaweed, scallion, a little sesame oil. Simple. Ceremonial. A soup that says: you are older now. You are still here. Eat.

I wrote about tteokguk this week because it is what I made, and because it is what the new year asked for — something simple and ceremonial, a dish that holds its meaning in the ritual of making it rather than in any complexity of technique. When I went looking for the recipe that felt right to share alongside that story, I kept returning to Malai Kofta: fried paneer dumplings in a slow-cooked cream sauce, a dish that also asks you to do one quiet, deliberate thing at a time. You make the kofta. You make the sauce. You bring them together at the end. There is something in that structure — the patient accumulation of steps — that felt like the right thing to put in your hands at the start of a year you are still counting down toward something.

Malai Kofta

Prep Time: 30 minutes | Cook Time: 40 minutes | Total Time: 1 hour 10 minutes | Servings: 4

Ingredients

• For the kofta:
• 2 cups paneer, finely grated
• 2 medium russet potatoes, boiled and mashed (about 1 cup)
• 2 tablespoons cornstarch
• 1/4 cup raw cashews, finely chopped
• 1/2 teaspoon garam masala
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• Neutral oil for frying
• For the sauce:
• 2 tablespoons butter or neutral oil
• 1 large yellow onion, finely diced
• 4 garlic cloves, minced
• 1-inch piece fresh ginger, grated
• 3 medium tomatoes, pureed (or one 14-oz can crushed tomatoes)
• 1 teaspoon ground cumin
• 1 teaspoon garam masala
• 1/2 teaspoon ground turmeric
• 1/2 teaspoon Kashmiri red chili powder (or mild paprika)
• 1 teaspoon sugar
• 3/4 cup heavy cream
• Salt to taste
• Fresh cilantro, for serving

Instructions

1. Make the kofta dough. In a large bowl, combine grated paneer, mashed potato, cornstarch, chopped cashews, garam masala, and salt. Mix until a smooth, cohesive dough forms. If it feels sticky, add a teaspoon of cornstarch at a time until it holds its shape.
2. Shape the kofta. Divide the dough into 12 to 14 equal portions. Roll each one between your palms into a smooth ball. Set aside on a plate.
3. Fry the kofta. Heat 2 to 3 inches of oil in a heavy-bottomed pot or deep skillet over medium heat until shimmering (about 350°F). Fry the kofta in batches of 4 to 5, turning gently, until golden on all sides, about 3 to 4 minutes per batch. Transfer to a paper towel—lined plate. Do not crowd the pan.
4. Build the sauce. In a wide saucepan over medium heat, melt the butter. Add the diced onion and cook, stirring occasionally, until deep golden and soft, about 12 to 15 minutes. Add the garlic and ginger and cook for 2 minutes more, until fragrant.
5. Add the tomatoes and spices. Pour in the tomato puree, then add cumin, garam masala, turmeric, chili powder, and sugar. Stir well. Simmer over medium-low heat for 10 to 12 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the sauce darkens and the oil begins to separate at the edges.
6. Finish with cream. Reduce the heat to low. Stir in the heavy cream and season with salt. Let the sauce simmer gently for 5 minutes, until slightly thickened and silky. Taste and adjust seasoning.
7. Combine and serve. Nestle the fried kofta into the sauce just before serving — do not let them sit too long or they will soften. Spoon into bowls, garnish with fresh cilantro, and serve with naan or basmati rice.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 420 | Protein: 14g | Fat: 28g | Carbs: 31g | Fiber: 3g | Sodium: 540mg