Teriyaki Chicken (Better Than Takeout, Easy & Sticky)

September arrived, and September did not ask how I was feeling about it.

This is the thing nobody tells you about grief — it doesn’t pause the rest of the world while you catch up. The houses still need to be sold. The phone still rings. Clients still want to close before the end of the quarter, before the school year starts, before interest rates move. I had four showings last Tuesday and a closing on Wednesday morning, and at some point between the second showing and the third I realized I had not thought about dinner, had not defrosted anything, had not even considered that I would eventually need to eat a meal that did not come out of a paper bag.

I texted Alexander. “Are you coming over tonight?”

He texted back: “Can’t, work thing.”

Work thing. He’s twenty-six and everything is a work thing. I sent a thumbs-up emoji and kept driving.

This is the rhythm of my life now, and honestly? I’m not unhappy about it. After January, after the pastitsio weeks — those early months where cooking a whole pan of something felt like the only way to make the silence make sense — I needed the noise of normal life to come back. The appointments. The negotiations. The clients who call at 8 PM to tell me they’ve changed their minds about the neighborhood but not the price. I need all of it. I need to be wanted and useful and moving forward at speed because the alternative is standing still, and standing still is where grief waits for you with a glass of wine and a sad playlist.

So I move. And I cook in ways that let me move.

The slow cooker was Sophia’s idea. She gave me one two Christmases ago — a big red one, six quarts, looks like it belongs in a Greek woman’s kitchen because it’s the color of a church door — and I regarded it the way I regard most shortcuts: with suspicion. Real cooking happens on the stovetop or in the oven. Real cooking requires presence. You stand at the stove, you watch, you smell, you adjust. That’s what Voula did. That’s what Yia-yia Despina did. You don’t just leave food to fend for itself.

And then I had a Tuesday with four showings and a closing and I put chicken thighs and chickpeas in that red pot at 7:30 in the morning and left the house, and I came home at 6:45 PM and my kitchen smelled like a memory I didn’t know I had.

Cumin. Coriander. Cinnamon — just a little, not enough to make it dessert, just enough to make you ask “what is that?” Tomatoes. Lemon. The chickpeas gone soft and silky in the broth, the chicken falling apart the way chicken should fall apart, the way it takes an hour in the oven but, as it turns out, also happens perfectly in eight hours in a slow cooker while you’re negotiating a counteroffer in a parking lot.

I stood in my kitchen with my bag still on my shoulder and ate a spoonful directly from the pot. Then I put my bag down. Then I ate another spoonful. Then I called Voula.

“I made a tagine,” I said.

A pause. “A what?”

“Tagine. Like a Moroccan stew, kind of. Chicken and chickpeas, with cumin and cinnamon and —”

“Why are you making Moroccan food?”

“Mama, Moroccan food and Greek food are cousins. We’re all Mediterranean. We all use the same olive oil.”

Another pause. “Did you put lemon in it?”

“Of course I put lemon in it.”

“Then it’s Greek enough,” she said. “Are you eating? You sound thin.”

You cannot sound thin. I have tried to explain this to Voula many times. She does not accept the argument.

“I’m eating right now, Mama. I’m literally eating as we speak.”

“Good. Come Sunday. Dimitri made lamb.”

“I’ll be there.”

This is our whole phone call, every time. Are you eating. Come Sunday. I’ll be there. It is the skeleton of a conversation, and I have come to understand that the flesh of it — the I miss your father and the I’m proud of you and the I worry about you alone in that house — lives inside the skeleton. We are Greek women. We communicate through food and logistics. The subtext is very loud if you know how to listen.

Here is what I want to say about this tagine, because I think it matters: I know it’s not a Greek dish. I know that. I am not going to pretend it’s something Yia-yia Despina made or something I learned standing on a step stool in my mother’s kitchen. It’s a recipe I found, adjusted, made mine over a few years of Tuesday nights when I needed something that would take care of itself while I took care of everything else. That’s allowed. Greek cooking is Mediterranean cooking, and Mediterranean cooking has been borrowing from itself for three thousand years. The Phoenicians, the Romans, the Ottomans, the Moors — everybody moved through that basin and left something behind in the pot. Cinnamon in savory dishes. Chickpeas. The combination of tart and warm and earthy that makes your whole body settle when you eat it. I didn’t invent any of it. Neither did Morocco. Neither did Greece. We all just got very good at it and then argued about who did it first.

The chicken thighs are non-negotiable — bone-in, skin-on, because the fat and collagen from the bones make the broth. You can use boneless if you want but you will be making a sadder, thinner version of this dish and you will know it. The chickpeas go in dry from a can, drained and rinsed, and they absorb everything — all that spiced, lemony broth — and become something more than chickpeas. The tomatoes break down. The onion disappears into the sauce. The whole thing becomes unified and fragrant and deeply, deeply comforting in that specific way of Mediterranean food: olive oil and acid and warm spice and time.

Serve it over couscous or rice or, if you are Greek and cannot fully commit to the Moroccan narrative, over orzo. I use couscous because it’s fast and it soaks up the broth perfectly and I have made my peace with couscous. Voula would probably serve it over rice. That’s fine too. Whatever absorbs broth is the right answer.

The week is still busy. The market is still moving. I have two new listings and an open house Sunday afternoon — after Tarpon Springs, not before; I have priorities — and about fifteen things I should be doing right now instead of writing this. But I made this tagine again yesterday morning before I left for the office, and it’s waiting for me in the refrigerator right now, and tonight I will come home and warm it up and eat it standing at the counter with a glass of wine, and that will be enough.

Baba would say this is not real cooking. He would say a woman who works all day and throws things in a pot in the morning has lost the plot entirely. He’d say it as he cleaned his plate, and then he’d ask for more, and then he’d go watch the game. That was Nikos. He thought cooking required sacrifice to count. Maybe it does, sometimes. But sometimes you have four showings and a closing, and sacrifice is showing up for all of it and still feeding yourself at the end of the day. That counts too.

It all counts.

This is the recipe I actually made that night — not the tagine, not anything that needed hours or patience I didn’t have. I had twenty minutes between dropping my bag on the counter and needing to sit down with something real in front of me. Teriyaki chicken. Garlic, soy sauce, a little honey, rice vinegar, sesame oil — everything whisked together in the same skillet. Baba would have called it tourist food, and I would have handed him a plate anyway, and he would have finished it. It’s the kind of meal that doesn’t ask you to prove anything — it just feeds you, and that’s enough.

Prep Time: 10 min | Cook Time: 10 min | Total Time: 20 min | Servings: 6

Ingredients

2 tablespoons olive oil
1 1/2 pounds boneless skinless chicken breasts (diced into bite-sized pieces)
3 to 4 cloves garlic (finely minced)
1 1/2 to 2 teaspoons ground ginger (or to taste, or about 2 heaping teaspoons freshly grated ginger)
1/4 cup reduced sodium soy sauce
1/4 cup reduced sodium chicken broth
1 tablespoon toasted sesame oil
1 tablespoon honey
1 tablespoon light brown sugar (packed)
1 tablespoon rice vinegar (sometimes called ’rice wine vinegar’ but they’re the same thing)
2 teaspoons cornstarch
Green onions (optional, for garnishing to taste)
Sesame seeds (optional, for garnishing to taste)
Salt and pepper (if desired and to taste)

Instructions

Cook the chicken. To a large skillet, add the olive oil, chicken, and saute over medium-high heat for about 5 minutes, or until chicken is cooked through and done. Stir and flip frequently to ensure even cooking. Tip — Want to use boneless skinless chicken thighs? That’s fine, they’ll likely need an extra 1–2 minutes to cook through.
Remove the chicken. When the chicken is done, remove it using a slotted spoon and set it on a plate momentarily.
Saute the aromatics. To the same skillet (don’t wipe it out), add the garlic, ginger, and if necessary add a bit more oil if your skillet is dry, and saute for about 1 minute; stir constantly so garlic doesn’t burn.
Build the teriyaki sauce. Add the soy sauce, broth, sesame oil, honey, brown sugar, rice vinegar, cornstarch, whisk to combine, and cook for about 2 to 3 minutes, whisking nearly constantly, until sauce thickens slightly. Tips — Sesame oil adds quintessential Asian flavor and so don’t skip it. Toasted (vs. non-toasted) sesame oil is the most common way it’s sold and what you want. Cornstarch is also essential because it helps the sauce thicken and can’t be skipped or your teriyaki sauce will be thinner and won’t cling to the chicken.
Combine and serve. Add the chicken into the teriyaki sauce, stir to combine and coat evenly, and optionally garnish with green onions and/or sesame seeds, as desired. If you think it needs salt (or pepper), add it, to taste. Depending on the brand of soy sauce and broth you use, and your personal preference for salt, you may or may not need to add salt. Serve immediately.
Storage. Extra chicken will keep airtight in the fridge for up to 5 days or in the freezer for up to 3 months. Reheat leftovers in the microwave for about 30–60 seconds, or as needed.

Nutrition (per serving)

Teriyaki Chicken (Better Than Takeout, Easy & Sticky) — Because Sometimes Twenty Minutes Is All You Have Left to Give