Note from Editor
Happy Wednesday! Welcome to a new edition of We Have Food At Home. Today, we have a delightful essay where Madison shares her journey developing her crispy tofu recipe. One of the markers of a We Have Food piece I envisioned when I came up with this newsletter was the vision of recipes to shine through in personal writing. That’s exactly what this essay does. The secret to crispy tofu is cornstarch, Madison tells us. And patience. What I love about this essay is that it takes a severely underrated ingredient—I feel like so many people are baffled by tofu because they don’t know how to make it wright—and tell us how to make a fantastic dish out of it. Something I enjoy abou tofu is that it is the flavor savor/saver ingredient—the mustache of a good curry and soup. Let it sit and it will absorb the flavor. Eat it last and it provides the perfect blend that’s been brewing. Crispy tofu however, is another perfect art form that can be done with tofu. I’ve had some memorable editions of a crispy tofu, from my roommate’s dinner version to salt and pepper tofu at Windsor in Boston. As Madison says, tofu always hits the spot.
I also appreciate that this essay guides us through the emotion, effort, and pride that comes with developing a signature dish. There’s so much love poured into the way Madison both talks about the tofu and carefully guides us through making it.
Pieces like this is what We Have Food At Home is all about. So read this and tell me, what is a signature dish you have that you’re proud of?
Madison Jackson
Madison Jackson recently graduated from Chatham University with her Master of Fine Arts degree in Creative Nonfiction Writing, with a concentration in Travel Writing. In 2019 she received her Bachelor of Arts degree from Binghamton University, in Judaic Studies and English Literature and Rhetoric. Madison is passionate about global Jewish life and lives in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.
Crispy Tofu
Since moving to Pittsburgh I have become famous for my tofu recipe.
“Her tofu is magic,” my roommate says to everyone we meet.
We’re at lunch at a friend’s house. Dish after dish is passed around the table. Plates are stacked so high with food people must remember to look up and make conversation.
“Is there any meat in this?” I ask the host. “I’m a vegetarian.”
“There’s no meat in the green beans. Everything except the chicken is vegetarian. But I’m so sorry I didn’t know you were a vegetarian. I would have made more vegetarian options.”
The routine is always the same. They apologize for not knowing I’m a vegetarian, I apologize for being a vegetarian. They wanted to know; I didn’t want them to know. They wanted to make extra vegetarian food, I prefer to lay low and ensure no one goes out of their way for me.
“What types of food do you like to eat?” they ask, already making mental notes for the next time I come over. I can see the pen scribbling fast in their invisible notebook.
“She loves tofu,” my roommate interjects. “She makes the best tofu.”
Suddenly it is as if a light bulb has turned on and brightened the room. All eyes are on me. They want to know how I make tofu. They want to know my special vegetarian pizzazz.
“The secret to crispy tofu is cornstarch,” I explain. “And being patient.”
First, place a paper towel on a plate. Situate the whole block of tofu on the paper towel and wrap it in a second paper towel covering the tofu completely. Balance a plate on top of the tofu, and stack one or two cans, anything you have in your cupboard, on top of the plate. We are playing Jenga. How long can the tower stand? As long as you are willing to wait.
I plan to let the pile sit for 15 minutes which usually becomes 30. While you wait for the water to leave the tofu (this allows the tofu to hold its shape and not fall apart into crumbles), preheat the oven to 400 degrees Fahrenheit. Pour some cornstarch into a large Ziploc bag. This is now a guessing game, and you are trying to figure out how much cornstarch will coat square cubes of tofu.
Sometimes I feel like a living lie when people say I make the best tofu. My mom makes the best tofu. I inherited the skill from her. Tofu whisks me back to living with my parents and cooking dinner for them. Even though I knew my mom heard the clanking of the kitchen cabinets, she would walk into the kitchen, see tofu ready on the table, and her eyes would grow big. The most genuine smile would spread across her face.
“Did you make dinner?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“You didn’t have to do that. That was so nice of you,” she replied.
“You had a busy day of work. I like cooking. I’m happy to make dinner.”
I love making others feel appreciated.
Next, sprinkle some salt, pepper, minced onions, and powdered garlic into the bag. I like precision. It is easier to think I won’t mess up that way. If a dish doesn’t turn out, and I followed a recipe, it isn’t my fault. But since I learned how to make this recipe without measurements, this is the one time when cooking where I don’t use measurements. Just a little of this, a little of that. I am reminded of my grandma cooking in the kitchen. Be sure to dump the garlic. You think you have enough garlic? You don’t. Keep pouring.
Before shaking the bag, add some red pepper flakes. They make a game of I Spy out of dinner. As you crunch down on pieces of tofu later, you’ll be asking: Can you spot the red pepper flakes?
Then, remove the tofu from the pool of water which has gathered on the plate and cut the tofu into 16 to 24 cubes. At this step friends watch me closely. They are in awe of my meticulous cutting of the tofu. I don’t understand what is so exciting about the process.
Tofu always hits the spot. If I am hungry, tofu fixes the searing pain in my stomach. If I crave something salty, tofu makes the craving disappear. If I feel sad, miss home, or lack energy, tofu revives my energy, fills me with protein and prevents me from eating my feelings in an unhealthy way.
Dump the tofu cubes into the Ziploc bag and close it. Shake the bag until the tofu pieces are coated in the cornstarch and spice mixture. You have become a magician. The pile of cloudy cornstarch disappears and in its place are white pieces of tofu.
At this point I expect that my lunch host will be bored and ready to turn back to the rest of the guests. But I have captured their attention as well and everyone wants to know what happens next. We are at a movie theater and the plot of the movie is only thickening.
Line a 9 by 13-inch baking tray with parchment paper, I say. Pour the tofu on the paper and give each tofu piece its own space. This is a good moment to sneak a sample. It’s the moment I look forward to the most. I know the tofu seems cold and mushy but pick up one of the coated pieces and pop it in your mouth. Yes, it is safe to eat raw. You’ll get a sneak peak of what is to come. The tofu smells of pungent garlic and is perfectly salted, with just a tweak of spiciness. It leaves cornstarch remnants on my fingers.
Retrieve three bottles from the cabinet. Wonder why anyone thought building a cabinet that was not removable was a good idea. Everything must come out for you to find the avocado oil, soy sauce, and sesame oil.
Rejoice in your success, you beat the bottles in the game of hide and seek. You always do. If the time spent searching means you will eat the same meal as your family two hours away, it is worth the effort.
Spray the tops of the tofu with avocado oil. Be warned: the oil reacting with the cornstarch will spray powder all over your kitchen. If you aren’t careful, you’ll look like the Pillsbury Doughboy from head to toe. Back up. And don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Next, sprinkle soy sauce over the tofu cubes. My mom always says it is okay if you don’t get soy sauce on every single piece. But I don’t agree. As a perfectionist, I like to make sure a drop of the sauce reaches each cube of tofu. Same goes with the sesame oil. Sprinkle that next. And decide if you will follow my mom’s way of cooking, or mine.
You’ve made it to the final step. Put the tray of tofu into the oven, on the bottom rack. Don’t put it on the top rack or it will burn. Set the timer for 25 minutes—until the tofu is browned and crispy. Clean up the table, splatter painted with cornstarch.
When the tofu comes out of the oven tell yourself to wait until dinner. It will taste best when cooled down, and scooped onto a plate with roasted zucchini, yellow squash, and a pile of brown rice. But pick up a piece of tofu and feel the texture between your fingers. Pop that piece in your mouth after all. You deserve it.
“Where did you get this recipe from?” my lunch host asks. She looks across the table at me, wide-eyed, as if she has just been let in on the solution for how to save the world.
“My cousin from Pittsburgh made it up. She told my mom how to make crispy tofu this way, and my mom told me,” I explain. “It’s really pretty simple.”
As I think about the full circle the recipe made from Pittsburgh to Cleveland and back to Pittsburgh again, I realize this is where it belongs. The city where I now live, is the city where the tofu recipe now lives too.
I always tell people not to cater to my vegetarian eating habits. I hate being the center of attention. My face turns red, and I feel guilty. People will think I am spoiled. I’m insecure, but cooking tofu makes me feel secure. I’m constantly worried about what people will think of me. I’d rather blend into the background. Yet, against my own wishes, I know that next time I come over there is a good chance that tofu will be waiting for me on the dining room table.
“You have to try it,” my roommate chimes in. “There is really nothing like her tofu.”