The Stuff of Dreams

What is it about Thanksgiving that invokes the sudden urge to stuff various foods into others? I don’t mean the way we stuff our faces to excess, but the stuffing of bread and wild rice into turkey; ducks and hens into turkey; pretty much anything conceivably edible into turkey. It’s as if the poor bird were less an entree and more a suitcase, over-packed with the savory odds and ends we only think of once a year and otherwise never use. Furtively shoved inside as if flavor might be confiscated at customs, no one seems to question the tradition, even if it makes little logical sense.

I’m not immune to this impulse, irrational as it may be. You’d understand and (hopefully) forgive me if you saw what I was up against, though. Spotting the most adorable dumpling squash at the store, perfectly plump and rotund, I was instantly smitten. Still swooning at the plunder in my shopping cart, I was already planning how best to eviscerate my darlings and replace their guts with green beans. Brutal, perhaps, but far better than wrangling giblets out of de-feathered fowl, don’t you think?

Like a dog’s instinct to howl at the moon, satisfying yet meaningless, I’m powerless to rein in this primal impulse. Dumpling squash are undeniably the best edible vessels nature can devise, but any similar small squash will do, like delicata or honeynut squash. Using green bean casserole as the filling has the added, unintentional benefit of turning two sides into one entree, so if you’re a veggie-lover like me that would rather leave giant hunks of dry, bland protein off the plate, this is the best of all worlds.

Encased in the plush, subtly sweet flesh of roasted winter squash, tender-crisp green beans cozy up to a mushroom-laced mélange that no ceramic baking dish can contain. A halo of golden fried onions gives it that unmistakable nostalgic flavor that no Thanksgiving table is complete without.

Maybe its the yawning empty cavity of a hollow gourd that demands to be filled. Maybe it’s our subconscious way of holding on to fleeting warmth, of cramming in joy wherever we can find it, of stacking up all the things we love in a pile so high that it’s impossible to let any sadness in. If there was ever a time to get stuffed, this is it. If we’re lucky, we won’t just fill our plates; we’ll fill our hearts, too.

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Purple People Pleaser

Ube is here to stay.

Casting Filipino kitchens in a vibrant violet hue for millennia, these tubers have taken root in the hearts, minds, and stomachs of those worldwide. Who wouldn’t immediately be captivated by such a striking shade? Few, if any, earthly ingredients could ever achieve that brilliance. One glance and the brain starts spinning like a top, searching for context clues to make sense of what might be on our plates but no, there’s nothing quite like ube.

Adjacent to Hannah yams in terms of texture and flavor, most people seek to accentuate their natural sweetness in desserts. Subtly nutty, accented by hints of floral vanilla, it’s an excellent candidate for the last course. I, however, am not most people, and I think ube should be the entree, too.

Noodles Everyday, In All The Ways

Back when I was obsessed with my pasta maker, if I could extrude it in a dough, no flavor combination was off the table. That era was marked by furious flour storms and spaghetti stands drying on every available surface. Beet linguine, spinach ravioli, charcoal spaghetti; I noodled through every color of the rainbow and back again. One stand-out experiment was ube fettuccine, impossibly indigo, fit for royalty.

Yes, the pasta portion of the recipe is written in grams; it’s worth the price of a kitchen scale, if you don’t already have one. Pasta making isn’t hard, especially with a machine doing the heavy lifting, but it is exacting.

Semi-Homemade Hack

To that end, you can use store-bought dried pasta and cook it in ube-tinted waters for a quicker, and easier fix, but one with much less impact. Expect something more along the lines of pastel lavender pasta, and precious little added flavor to speak of.

To honor its more tropical origin, no average Alfredo sauce would do. Coconut replaces cream in a lush, velvety, unapologetically rich base, coaxed back into savory territory with umami nutritional yeast, garlic, and a whisper of lemon juice. Simple in composition but wildly nuanced in flavor, it’s a sauce that sings in harmony with the sweet, nutty depth of the ube without competing, only amplifying.

Why relegate something so naturally brilliant to just pastries and lattes? Ube has range, and clear staying power. It brings a gentle sweetness with a grounding earthiness that makes it just as welcome at the start of a meal as the finish.

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Egged On

Does anyone else have definitively different algorithms across platforms? Facebook seems to think I’m a complete Japanophile, never failing to remind me about sakura season and tips for packing bento boxes, while Instagram (though also owned by Facebook) feeds me a steady diet of gloom, doom, and horrid AI atrocities.

Though it’s been quite some time since I last visited Japan and have little hope of returning anytime soon, you can guess where I’d rather waste my time. Indulging in a bit of mindless scrolling before bed, I came across a very unremarkable video, no longer than 10 seconds at most, highlighting one more piece of evidence that “Japan is living in 2050.” Lo and behold, shelf stable packets of tamago kake sauce to squeeze over rice. Astounding.

Flipping through countless similar, forgettable contributions to this digital wasteland, I quickly moved on. For some reason though, the idea stuck with me. Tamago kake gohan, the most basic dish of hot rice topped with raw egg, could still be easier to make. To me, a lover of all things vegan egg-related, I was secretly captivated. I wanted to recreate this simple pleasure but got caught up in the complications of making a spherified vegan egg yolk, which is diametrically opposed to the elementary nature of the meal. If the egg could just be sauce, since it just gets broken up and stirred into the rice anyway, that changes things.

Dozens if not hundreds of recipes for vegan yolks are floating about on the web at this point, so if mine doesn’t strike your fancy, go off on a Google adventure and take your pick. My point here is that while a perfect golden dome, capable of bursting into unctuous, eggy sauce would look more impressive at first serving, the results are the same: it’s delicious. As someone prone to overthinking, it’s exhausting chasing the best, most perfect, most beautiful, most creative of everything. Tamago kake gohan should require zero thinking.

It’s not pretty and won’t get any likes on social media. I’m okay with that. I’ll make a big batch of egg sauce and rice, pack them separately in the fridge, and have easy food all week. Plus, all you have to do is add tofu for an instant scramble, if you’re more in the mood for that. Additional toppings are optional, but recommended, especially if you eat this frequently, to prevent palate fatigue. It’s good, maybe even great, though not enough to catapult me into 2050. Thank god for that.

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Terry-bly Good Veggie Burgers

Few veggie burgers carry such mystique and acclaim as the patty from P. Terry’s. As a throwback to simpler times, it’s all substance, no style, and proud of it. It doesn’t try to emulate meat, yet regularly wins over proud carnists, at least for one meal. Many would say it’s the best veggie burger in the city, which is a tall claim for a $5 meal, fully loaded. Still, it bums me out.

Plant-Forward, Not Plant-Based

The veggie burger from P. Terry’s is not vegan. It’s not a matter that removing the top slice of American cheese can remedy; these legendary patties come with two additional types of shredded cheese baked right inside, enmeshed into the very fiber of that brown rice base. Vegetarian, yes; vegan, no.

Possibilities Frozen In Time

What’s more infuriating is that it doesn’t have to be this way. They’ve proven they have the technology! For a time span so short that it seemed like a fever dream, P. Terry’s started selling frozen veggie burger patties at select Whole Foods, including the original, AND a fully plant-based version using Daiya vegan cheese! Did anyone ever find them in stores? The records are lost to time. I certainly missed out on the opportunity, and they were never offered as a menu item in restaurants.

Deconstructing Ingredients

Though frustrating, the hype surrounding the dairy-filled classic has created a long paper trail of evidence for deconstruction. Their own website lists the ingredients as follows:

crimini mushrooms, heavy cream, black beans, brown rice, cheddar cheese, onion, mozzarella cheese, eggs, whole wheat flour, oats, parsley, corn starch, salt, garlic powder

Despite some conflicting evidence from a video posted to Facebook, showing the inclusion of bulgur, I believe the above to be true and accurate. Maybe they were just trying to throw us off the trail, because it’s otherwise too easy. I’m onto your tricks, Mr. Terry.

Starting From Scratch

Simple, comforting, and distinctly wholesome, this is a burger meant to taste homemade. For working people who don’t have the luxury of time to make their own, and would honestly rather not be eating fast food, that’s the whole appeal. Lightly crisped on the outside and soft on the inside, the standard array of crisp lettuce, tomato, onion, and “special sauce” create a satisfying contrast that brings it all together. Perhaps it’s special because it’s un-special, or vice versa?

As a vegan, it’s hard not to feel a little burned by the P. Terry’s veggie burger. With such thoughtful composition, respects paid to classic meatless patties of the 70’s and 80’s, and all that mouthwatering hype, it feels like a huge miss to keep dairy and eggs at its core.

Fast Food Meets Slow Food

For those of us on the outside looking in, there’s power in reinterpretation. The original’s legacy has created a clear blueprint, ripe for the taking. It may never show up on the P. Terry’s menu board, but some legends are best when you make your own.

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Firfir For Real

Ugly but tasty; that’s firfir, alright. Made from torn pieces of injera, it’s a thrifty way to use day-old bread and a few pantry staples. Of course, leftover injera isn’t something I’ve ever had at my disposal, so rare and precious that every scrap is exhausted long before the stews alongside. Firfir is every bit as special, no matter how simple. Now that I can order injera whenever I want, firfir is back on the menu, fresh and vibrant as ever.

Injera, the spongy, sour flatbread at the heart of Ethiopian cuisine, is a flatbread I could never make from scratch. All it takes is teff flour, water, and salt, but that’s not the whole story. Days of fermentation are what create its signature flavor and texture before its spread in paper-thin layers, even finer than French crepes, demanding untold years of practice to master. Anyone without access to an Ethiopian restaurant was out of luck, until Red Fox Spices began selling both Ivory and Brown Teff Injera inside their meal kits and, most important to this culinary adventure, solo.

What Goes Into Firfir?

There’s no “correct” way to make firfir. Mercifully, that also means there’s no wrong way to do it, either. It’s a dish of memory more than measurement. You’ll find variations all across Ethiopian households, each adapted as the technique passed through the hands of generations of cooks. Some brightened with fresh tomatoes, others simply use tomato paste or sauce. Some are fiery hot, others more mild. The only constant is the teff flatbread base, liberal use of oil and onions, and a heavy hand when applying berbere.

Berbere: The Heart Behind the Heat

There is no talking about firfir, or frankly, Ethiopian cuisine at all, without singing the praises of berbere. Crimson and potent as a red-hot flame, it’s the essential spice blend that pulses through almost every dish like a low, melodic hum. Smoky chili peppers take the lead, supported by a chorus of garlic, ginger, fenugreek, cumin, cardamom, allspice, and more. Like every other element of the cuisine, proportions vary from home to home, though it will always knock you off your feet with layers of complex flavor. I’m happy to get an assist from Red Fox Spices on this one too, as it’s the real deal.

Firfir For Days

Timeless, foolproof, and always well-received, firfir can be enjoyed for any meal. In Ethiopia, it’s most commonly served for breakfast, scooped up with even more fresh injera.

Firfir may not win any beauty contests, but it’s the kind of meal that’s meant to be eaten with your hands, not your eyes. Now that the key ingredients, injera and berbere, are readily available for shipping all over the world, there’s no excuse not to bring this soulful, spicy tangle of comfort into your own kitchen.

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Pesto Both Worlds

Put pesto and yuba together and nine times out of ten, you’d be right in thinking we’d have a high-protein faux noodle situation on the table. This is the one time out of ten where you’d be wrong.

Why Yuba? Why Not!

Thinly sliced soymilk skin, AKA yuba, makes an excellent facsimile for fettuccine; toothsome yet delicate, tangling with any pasta sauce as elegantly as anything made from wheat. And yes, while you could very happily stop there, treating that mixture more like a tuna salad and slapping it on a bun offers numerous benefits. For one, you can now eat it with your hands, shamelessly, and in public, which brings me to the second point of its enhanced portability. Can you eat a bowlful of spaghetti in the car, or pack it up and put it in a purse? Perhaps, but it I’d still argue that a sandwich full of pesto yuba has the edge.

Simple Swaps

Fresh yuba has become harder to get my hands on since moving away from California, inspiring me to recreate this understated classic with grated tofu, in case you’re wondering about substitutions. In fact, taking super firm tofu to a basic box grater yields a consistency more aligned with a conventional shredded chicken, faux crab, or tuna situation, more substantial and meaty, making its place between two slices of bread self-evident.

It’s not a flashy meal. It doesn’t sizzle, there’s no microgreen garnish. It’s not even particularly creative; just a different way of looking at an infinitely versatile ingredient that deserves to be more than another alt noodle.

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