By Mid-June. The San Francisco literary festival. I flew down with Miya (Brian had her the following week, so the timing worked). Barbara and Gerald drove up from Ashland. We met at the festival venue — a bookstore in the Mission — and Barbara hugged me for a full minute and Gerald said, "We're proud of you, Jen," and the we was both of them, Barbara and Gerald, the American family, the loud family, the family that says "I'm proud of you" out loud, with words, with volume, the opposite of the Nakamura way, and the opposite was exactly what I needed.
The panel was three food writers: me, a Mexican-American woman who wrote about her abuela's tamales, and a Vietnamese-American man who wrote about his father's pho. The three of us — Japanese, Mexican, Vietnamese — sitting on a stage in San Francisco, talking about grandmothers and grief and the food that carries the story when the family cannot. The conversation was electric. The audience leaned in. The leaning was the listening. The three of us were saying the same thing in three different cuisines: the food is the love. The love is the food. The loss is the reason we cook. The cooking is the reason we survive.
After the panel, a woman approached me. She was in her sixties, Japanese American, and she was holding a copy of my book that was already dog-eared, already annotated, already lived-in. She said: "I made your miso soup recipe. My granddaughter helped. She's seven." I said: "My daughter helped me too. She's seven." We looked at each other — two women, two generations, two granddaughters the same age, both making miso soup from a book that began in a kitchen that no longer exists — and the looking was the recognition. The recognition was the reason for the book. The recognition was the ocean, not so wide.
That woman at the festival — dog-eared book in hand, granddaughter at home, miso soup on the stove — reminded me that the recipes we share are never just recipes. When I got back to my own kitchen, I wanted something simple and bright to serve alongside the salmon I had waiting: this vegan tartar sauce, the one I reach for when I want a little acid and ease without a lot of ceremony. It’s not miso. It doesn’t carry the same weight. But it sits at the table with the same quiet honesty, and sometimes that’s exactly enough.
Vegan Tartar Sauce
Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 0 minutes | Total Time: 10 minutes | Servings: 8
Ingredients
- 1 cup vegan mayonnaise
- 2 tablespoons dill pickle relish
- 1 tablespoon capers, drained and roughly chopped
- 1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
- 1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
- 1 tablespoon fresh dill, finely chopped (or 1 teaspoon dried dill)
- 1 small shallot, finely minced
- 1/4 teaspoon garlic powder
- Salt and black pepper to taste
Instructions
- Combine the base. In a medium bowl, whisk together the vegan mayonnaise, Dijon mustard, and lemon juice until smooth and fully incorporated.
- Add the aromatics. Stir in the dill pickle relish, capers, minced shallot, fresh dill, and garlic powder.
- Season. Taste and season with salt and black pepper. Adjust lemon juice or relish to your preference — the sauce should be tangy, creamy, and bright.
- Chill. Cover and refrigerate for at least 15 minutes before serving to allow the flavors to meld. The sauce keeps well in an airtight container in the refrigerator for up to one week.
- Serve. Spoon generously alongside pan-seared or baked fish, crab cakes, fish tacos, or roasted vegetables.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 110 | Protein: 0g | Fat: 11g | Carbs: 2g | Fiber: 0g | Sodium: 210mg