Mandarin Pork Stir Fry

Mid-March. Issue #3: "The Panic Attack." The Trader Joe's story. The edamame and the eggs. The curb. The breathing. The return to medication. The essay is the rawest thing in the newsletter, the rawest thing I have ever published, rawer than the blog, rawer than the book, rawer than the New York Times. The rawness is the point. The rawness is the permission: permission to need a pill, permission to have a panic attack in a grocery store, permission to be a woman who writes about food and also cannot breathe sometimes and the two — the writing and the not-breathing — are the same woman, and the same woman is the newsletter, and the newsletter is the permission.

The response was: enormous. Three hundred replies. The most-replied-to newsletter I will ever send (though I don't know that yet). The replies were from people who have panic attacks and have never told anyone. People who take medication and feel ashamed. People who read the blog and the book and thought I was a calm, collected, miso-soup-making sage and are now learning that the sage has panic attacks in the edamame aisle and the learning is the relief, the relief of discovering that the person you admire is also the person you are: messy, medicated, making soup at three AM because the world is too much.

I made miso soup at three AM that night — not because I couldn't sleep but because the three hundred replies were in my chest and the chest was full and the only response to a full chest is the soup, the ritual, the practice that empties the chest by filling the bowl. The bowl is the container. The chest is the overflow. The soup is the transfer: from the full chest to the chipped bowl, the feelings becoming flavor, the flavor becoming the practice, the practice becoming the life.

The miso soup carried me through that three AM, but it was this stir fry I came back to the following night, when the replies were still arriving and my chest still hadn’t fully quieted. There’s something about the wok — the high heat, the sequencing, the mandarin slices that go in at the very end because they are too fragile and too bright to survive a moment longer than necessary — that asks for the same quality of attention that breathing through a panic requires: full presence, or nothing at all. I make it when I need proof that I can move through difficult things in small, deliberate steps, and arrive somewhere warm on the other side.

Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 15 min | Total Time: 30 min | Servings: 4

Ingredients

1 lb pork tenderloin, sliced into thin strips
1 can (11 oz) mandarin orange segments, drained, juice reserved
3 tablespoons soy sauce, divided
1 tablespoon cornstarch
1/4 cup reserved mandarin juice
1 tablespoon hoisin sauce
1 teaspoon rice vinegar
1 teaspoon sesame oil
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 teaspoon fresh ginger, grated
1 red bell pepper, thinly sliced
1 cup snow peas, trimmed
3 green onions, sliced, divided
Sesame seeds, for garnish
Cooked white or brown rice, for serving

Instructions

Marinate the pork. In a bowl, toss pork strips with 1 tablespoon soy sauce and the cornstarch until evenly coated. Let sit for 10 minutes while you prep the remaining ingredients.
Make the sauce. Whisk together the reserved mandarin juice, remaining 2 tablespoons soy sauce, hoisin sauce, rice vinegar, and sesame oil in a small bowl. Set aside.
Sear the pork. Heat vegetable oil in a large wok or skillet over high heat until shimmering. Add pork in a single layer and cook without stirring for 2 minutes, then stir-fry until just cooked through, about 2 more minutes. Transfer to a clean plate.
Cook the aromatics and vegetables. In the same pan over high heat, add garlic and ginger and cook for 30 seconds until fragrant. Add bell pepper and snow peas and stir-fry for 2–3 minutes until just tender-crisp.
Bring it together. Return pork to the pan, pour in the sauce, and toss everything to coat. Cook for 1 minute until the sauce thickens slightly and clings to the pork and vegetables.
Finish with the mandarins. Remove pan from heat. Gently fold in the mandarin segments and half the green onions — just enough to warm them through without breaking them apart.
Serve. Spoon over rice and garnish with remaining green onions and a sprinkle of sesame seeds.

Nutrition (per serving)

Mandarin Pork Stir Fry — The Ritual That Empties the Chest