There is something so eerily comforting about cooking in the middle of the night. The idea seems especially appealing when I can't bring myself to sleep—I make a cup of tea and start slicing away, the crunching sound of raw vegetables surrendering to the shiny silver sharpness piercing the quiet I have built for myself. There is a light above the sink whose bulb my dad replaced himself, and moody music on my computer (The Mountain Goats' "Woke Up New" and Trembling Blue Stars' "Sometimes I Still Feel the Bruise" are incredibly honest and brave), and a window I can open to the faint swooshing of cars in a hurry. For the next few minutes I think about how these are good things; these are presents, from someone or somewhere. These are enough.
Already I know how it goes: wait for the sizzle, throw in the cauliflower and broccoli, add a pinch of salt, maybe some sugar, save the zucchini and mushrooms for last. Don't stand too close to the stove. Sit. Watch. Be patient. Do the dishes right away, because you're a grown-up and that's what grown-ups do. Don't burn your tongue.
I often make too much for one sitting (sometimes I mean to do this but sometimes I don't), so the leftovers are packed into clear plastic containers and stored for the next day, and probably the next. When I wake up in the morning to the warm smell of sesame oil still hanging in the air, it is always a pleasant surprise.
