Tempered

The dark green florets rest dense and bushy in my left hand; the cold metallic steel of the cai dao (vegetable knife) weighs heavily in my right. We own other knives, but that heavy, blocky cleaver splits the cleanest.

fwut. fwut. fwut.

A few quarter-inch slices pile up as the stem shortens. A few florets lose their connecting joints and fall. The cleaver descends again, with wave after wave tumbling down the large white cutting board with soft rustles. The florets, prone to roll off the smaller boards, remain confined within this one’s generous boundaries. After fully breaking apart the crown, I turn my attention to the stem slices (which my brother and I used to despise) and bâtonnet them so they will cook thoroughly and actually taste good. Sweeping the thin batons of broccoli stem aside, I return my attention to the stars of the show.

My eyes size up the floret in front of me—much too big to cook thoroughly. I’ll need to split it in half. But one wrong move, and I’ll be left with one piece too big and another too small (pieces which most certainly won't cook at an even rate). But no worry, the failures of my hundreds of previously misaligned chops have trained me. I align the cleaver, one floret after another, splitting open their stems and exposing their light green flesh. Now, steam can soften the stem from its permeable inside rather than its tough outside.

In its two piece strainer-bowl tub, the broccoli receives a nice, cleansing bath of tap water and baking soda. Rinsed and prepared, they are finally ready to cook.

The stovetop fan accelerates. My right hand holds the cold, tinted bottle of cooking gold; my left hand hovers over the flat-bottomed wok. The nerves on my skin tingle, giving me the go sign. I tilt the bottle, just enough for a light drizzle. The pebbles of olive oil dance across the blistering steel, confirming my gauge of the heat. The broccoli makes its entrance and my eardrums shudder. The spits and spurts fill the air, and a spatula jostles through turbulent notes of light and dark green. A light wave of tap water strikes the broccoli from above. Scalding steam erupts—

But it doesn’t get a chance to escape. A lid of tempered glass traps the cloud inside. The hissing muffles. And now I wait.

I wholeheartedly disagree with the “vegetables taste bad” sentiment among kids, but their aversion is understandable. A raw, neglected floret leaves sappy, dry, and bitter residues on the tongue. A soggily steamed floret loses all bite and can sometimes go fishy too. Unevenly cut pieces end up with clashing textures of overcooked crowns and carrot-like stems. But that said, when properly enriched by oil and softened by steam, the broccoli produces a beautiful balance of savory but bitter and sweet.

The process cannot be rushed. Each head of broccoli comes in a different shape and size. Each head requires a spatial attentiveness to chop consistent pieces. Each chopped up batch demands a different amount of oil and fry-off time to properly draw out the umami flavors, a different amount of water to thoroughly steam without leaving a puddle below, a different amount of steaming time to tenderize the florets without leaving them soggy. It takes experience. It takes time.

The time feels about right. Not from the sight, the smell, or the sound—not from any of my five senses. But experience tells me it’s done. I lift the lid, the steam escapes, and I sprinkle in flakes of sea salt and lightly toss the wok.

My jaw bites down onto a crisp-tender al dente floret, and I can taste the care invested in its preparation.