Sweet Pepper Venison Stir-Fry

Christmas in the Southeast Portland kitchen. Miya and I cooked alongside me. Miya, 9, set the table. The maple was bare. The garden dormant. The kitchen warm. We ate well.

Miya, 9, can shape onigiri without falling apart. She uses wet hands. She knows the order without being told. I drank miso from Fumiko's chipped bowl. The chip fits my lip. The lip fits the chip. The bowl is the small daily ritual.

Gyoza this weekend. Pork and cabbage filling. Pleated by hand. Fried then steamed. The crisp bottoms. The dipping sauce of soy, vinegar, chili oil.

I called Ken in Sacramento. The pauses are longer now. I asked about the daikon. He told me, slowly, about the recent harvest. He grew six. They were perfect.

I sat at the kitchen window with my tea. The garden was the garden.

A reader sent me a handwritten card this week. Her grandmother had cooked Japanese food in 1970s Boise. She had felt alone in it. The newsletter, she wrote, made her feel less alone. I taped the card to the wall above my desk.

Miya's old room is now my office. The desk is by the window. The shiso outside. The newsletter in progress. The afternoons are quiet.

The cat was the cat. Mochi at fifteen sleeps most of the day. She still eats with enthusiasm. She still sits at the kitchen window watching the back garden.

Made dashi at five-thirty AM. Ten minutes in the kitchen alone with the kombu and the bonito flakes. The day's first prayer.

I drove to Uwajimaya Wednesday. Kombu, bonito flakes, white miso, a small bag of mochiko for tomorrow's project. The store smells like home.

I read for an hour Sunday night. A book of essays by a Korean-American writer about food and grief. I underlined a paragraph that said exactly what I had been trying to say in the newsletter for months.

Tomi watered the garden Saturday morning. The shiso was head-high. The shishito peppers were producing. The kabocha was running on the fence.

I texted Miya a photo of the shiso. She texted back a heart and a single word: home.

The rain in long sheets Tuesday afternoon. I made tea. I watched it from the porch. The cottonwoods on the next block were silver in the wet.

I wrote at the kitchen table from six to eight. The newsletter was forming. The opening sentence was the hard sentence — they always are. I rewrote it five times. The fifth time was the right time.

A panic flicker Tuesday evening, brief, manageable. I breathed. I drank water. I went outside and walked around the block. The flicker passed. The body did its work.

The neighbor's dog barked at nothing for twenty minutes Sunday afternoon. The neighbor apologized. I told him I had been writing through it and the white noise was helpful. He laughed.

Coffee with a friend Saturday morning. We talked about books, about kids, about the way our forties became our fifties. The talking is the thing.

I made onigiri for tomorrow's lunch. Three triangles. Salted plum in the center. Wrapped in nori. The cling wrap. The drawer where I keep them. The system.

Miya is in elementary school. The Saturday Japanese school continues. She still complains. She is still going.

Sunday farmers market in the rain. The vendors knew me. The Hood River apple stand had honeycrisps. I bought four pounds.

Therapy Tuesday. We talked about the wedding. We talked about Barbara. We talked about Fumiko. The hour passed. The work continues.

Yoga Tuesday morning. The studio in Sellwood. Eight students. The class was the class.

The shishito peppers in Tomi’s garden have been producing faster than I can plan meals around them, and the gyoza are still a weekend project—the pleating takes time I don’t have on a Tuesday. But the hot pan, the hiss of something hitting oil, that motion is the same. This stir-fry came together on one of those quiet evenings after yoga, after therapy, after the walk around the block—the kind of night when the body wants something fast and the kitchen wants to be used. Sweet peppers from the market, venison from the freezer, the wok already seasoned from years of exactly this.

Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 12 min | Total Time: 27 min | Servings: 4

Ingredients

1 lb venison sirloin or backstrap, thinly sliced against the grain
2 tablespoons soy sauce, divided
1 tablespoon cornstarch
2 tablespoons neutral oil (such as avocado or vegetable), divided
3 sweet peppers (mixed colors), seeded and sliced into strips
1 medium onion, halved and thinly sliced
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 teaspoon fresh ginger, grated
2 tablespoons oyster sauce
1 tablespoon rice wine vinegar
1 teaspoon sesame oil
1/4 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes (optional)
Steamed white rice, for serving
Sliced green onions, for garnish

Instructions

Marinate the venison. In a medium bowl, toss the sliced venison with 1 tablespoon soy sauce and the cornstarch. Let sit at room temperature for 10 minutes while you prep the vegetables.
Make the sauce. In a small bowl, whisk together the oyster sauce, remaining 1 tablespoon soy sauce, rice wine vinegar, and sesame oil. Set aside.
Sear the venison. Heat a wok or large cast-iron skillet over high heat until smoking. Add 1 tablespoon oil and spread the venison in a single layer. Sear without moving for 1 to 2 minutes, then stir-fry for another minute until just cooked through. Transfer to a plate.
Cook the vegetables. Add remaining 1 tablespoon oil to the same pan. Add the onion and peppers and stir-fry over high heat for 3 to 4 minutes until tender-crisp with a little char at the edges.
Add aromatics. Push the vegetables to the side, add the garlic and ginger to the center of the pan, and cook for 30 seconds until fragrant, then stir everything together.
Finish the dish. Return the venison to the pan, pour the sauce over everything, and toss to coat. Add red pepper flakes if using. Stir-fry for 1 minute until the sauce thickens and coats the meat and vegetables evenly.
Serve. Spoon over steamed white rice and garnish with sliced green onions.

Nutrition (per serving)

Sweet Pepper Venison Stir-Fry — The Crisp Pan, the Garden Peppers, the Familiar Motion