(Marinating) Tofu

The bits.

Now I don’t want to get first-world-problem-sy on y’all, but I cannot lie: I hate marinating my own tofu. Whole Foods do it perfectly well. It’s not so much the time consumption—I like nothing better than having an excuse to bumble about in the kitchen with a podcast on [today alone I’ve consumed the first Reith Lecture from 2014, Public Philosopher, In Our Time on ‘Greek Myth’ and Freakonomics on Why We Shouldn’t Tip]. Oh no, a far more sinister reason underwrites my dislike for this task. Let's just say that concocting this marinade really reminded me of something.

Stirring to the sounds of 'Why Democracy?' by Michael Sandel

When I was about eight, there was a day when I really didn’t want to go to school. Like, really didn’t want to. I had the passion of one thousand fat kids trying to get out of their annual cross-country. Although unimpressed in hindsight at my capacity for slackness, I prefer to think of the story I am about to tell as revealing something actually quite impressive, nay amazing, about my mind. 

That morning in the winter of 1997, before either parent had stirred, the young me was furtively stirring up a hand-crafted emetic. That is, an aide vomi. 

I recall plundering my parents’ spice rack for the bulk of the emetic (you'll recall if you're a follower of the blog that most of my parents' spices are normally a good decade past their use-by date, so I was  technically already at an emetic advantage). Chilli power, ground cumin, and garlic salt were the first into the glass. But what really tipped it over the edge (and what makes writing about this now bring on the first churns of fresh emesis) was that the main ingredient was Horlicks. And as Aristotle once observed, sometimes the mere imagination of something is enough to incite bodily change. Needless to say, if the thought of a garlic-salt-laden malt brew doesn’t cause in you some serious twinges, well…you’ve gone wrong. 

Cutting into the curd

Now, as a child who rarely got ill, when my father saw me heaving greenly into the toilet, there was little else required to secure my absence. Was it worth it? No. I remember the next day my then-bestie, Sophie, told me they had played Bingo in French where someone had won a Crunchie. That could’ve (not saying would’ve) been me. 

So it was with slightly greened-over gusto that I prepared today’s tofu marinade. Largely comprised of soy sauce and tahini, I was aiming for an umami arpeggio in the mouth. 

Drizzleshot

I dashed a small quantity of dark soy into a bowl, followed by a spoonful of tahini, some salt, finished with a little sprinkle of paprika and chilli powder. It had the consistency of motor oil, so I added a small quantity of water. I tasted it on my little finger, admittedly nervous of my own concoction (once bitten twice shy and all that). Thankfully it was in no way redolent of that antique bulimic brew. 

Quick drizzle of my favourite citrus fruit

The tofu itself required ‘draining’. [I realise this blogpost is full of disgusting imagery, I’ve actually lost my appetite to eat this afternoon.] All you need do is squash the bean-curd brick between sheets (and sheets, and sheets) of kitchen roll. When it no longer oozes a pellucid water, you’re ready to marinate. 

My favourite kind of cubism

Since the tofu is still marinating, I am writing this without having sampled my work. I plan to bake the tofu in the oven this evening, serving it tossed over a salad of sautéd but still-crunchy bean sprouts, toasted sesame seeds and yet more soy sauce. 

That is, when I’ve got my appetite back. My stomach currently still feels like it’s in 1997.