Zucchini Beef Skillet

Saturday, March 12. The call with Jisoo. Two hours. I am writing this on Monday with the soft, hollow, full-up feeling of a person who has been through something important.

I set up at 5:45 PM Pacific. The tripod, the laptop, the camera. The doenjang on the counter where she could see it. The sundubu ingredients laid out in bowls. Rice on the stove. Kimchi on the cutting board. I wore the same sweater as the September call — a small private superstition.

At 6 PM Jisoo appeared. Behind her, her kitchen. A window to her right with winter light coming in. Her countertop the same cream laminate I had seen in dozens of photos. Her hair in a low bun. She smiled at me. I smiled at her. Hye-jin waved and muted.

Jisoo said, in Korean: "Daughter. Are you ready?" I said, in Korean: "Ne, umma. Ready." That was the first time I had called her umma out loud. I had said it in my head many times. I had said it to Dr. Yoon. I had never said it to her. The word left my mouth and landed. She put her hand over her heart. She said, through Hye-jin: "You said it. You called me umma." I said, through my tears, "Yes. Because you are."

We cooked. She watched me heat the oil, add the gochugaru, the garlic, the scallions. She corrected my garlic — "more, more, you are stingy with garlic." I added more garlic. She laughed. She said, "See? Better smell." I smelled it through my screen, but I also smelled it through her authority, which is a different kind of knowing. I added the anchovy stock. I added the tofu. She said, "Break it bigger. Not smaller pieces. You want curds, not mush." I broke the tofu in bigger chunks. She nodded. I added the clams. I cracked the egg in the last minute. She smiled. She said, "You are making sundubu. You are making it correctly."

I set a bowl in front of my camera. She set a bowl she had cooked in parallel in front of her camera. We ate sundubu together. In the middle of hers, she said, in slow English: "Stephanie. I wish. I was there." I said, "I know, umma. You will be. We are almost there." She nodded. She ate. She pushed the bowl toward the camera as if offering me some. I pushed my bowl toward the camera. We mimed eating each other's sundubu.

Then we talked. Not cooking talk. Real talk. She told me about her week. Her husband had been to the doctor; nothing serious, a follow-up for blood pressure. Eunji had been by on Tuesday with a novel she wanted Jisoo to read. Jihoon had called from Seoul on Wednesday. Jisoo had been to the market Friday and bought fish. She had weeded her garden. She had prayed for me at mass on Sunday. The ordinary shape of a week in Busan. She wanted me to know it. She wanted me to have her week the way I was offering her mine.

I told her about Karen. Karen's good days and bad days. The part-time aide. The way Karen is facing the disease. Jisoo listened. At the end she said, "Please tell Karen I love her." I did not know this sentence would arrive. I did not know Jisoo had reached a place where she could say she loved Karen. I was silent for a full fifteen seconds. Then I said, "I will tell her." And I did. On Sunday. Karen cried. Karen said, "I love her too, Stephanie. Tell her I love her too."

I have two mothers and they love each other. This is the strangest, best, most improbable sentence I have ever written. I am going to write it ten more times in my journal tonight.

The recipe this week is Jisoo's sundubu — with extra garlic, bigger tofu curds, the way she taught me. I made it again on Monday night because I wanted her hands on the meal again. James ate a bowl. I ate two. The kitchen held both mothers, both countries, both hands. The meal held us all.

I made sundubu on Saturday with Jisoo, and I made it again Monday just to keep her hands near me — but by Tuesday I needed something quieter, something that didn’t ask anything of me except to stand at the stove and stir. This zucchini beef skillet is that kind of meal: one pan, real heat, the kind of recipe that holds you while you’re still processing the weight of something beautiful. It’s not Korean, it doesn’t pretend to be, but it belongs to the same instinct — that after you’ve been through something that changes you, the kitchen is still the place you go.

Prep Time: 10 min | Cook Time: 20 min | Total Time: 30 min | Servings: 4

Ingredients

1 lb ground beef (85/15)
2 medium zucchini, halved lengthwise and sliced into half-moons
1 small yellow onion, diced
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 can (14.5 oz) diced tomatoes, undrained
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 teaspoon smoked paprika
1/2 teaspoon cumin
1/2 teaspoon salt, plus more to taste
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
1/4 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes (optional)
1/2 cup shredded mozzarella or Monterey Jack cheese
Fresh parsley or scallions, for garnish

Instructions

Brown the beef. Heat a large skillet over medium-high heat. Add the ground beef and cook, breaking it apart with a wooden spoon, until browned and no pink remains, about 6–8 minutes. Drain excess fat and transfer beef to a plate.
Sauté the aromatics. Return the skillet to medium heat and add the olive oil. Add the diced onion and cook until softened, about 3 minutes. Add the minced garlic and cook for 1 minute more, until fragrant.
Add the zucchini. Add the sliced zucchini to the skillet and stir to coat. Cook for 4–5 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the zucchini is just tender but still holds its shape.
Build the sauce. Return the browned beef to the skillet. Pour in the diced tomatoes with their juices. Add the smoked paprika, cumin, salt, black pepper, and red pepper flakes if using. Stir everything together and simmer over medium-low heat for 5 minutes to let the flavors meld.
Melt the cheese. Sprinkle the shredded cheese evenly over the top of the skillet. Cover with a lid or foil and let sit for 2 minutes, until the cheese is melted and bubbly.
Serve. Garnish with fresh parsley or sliced scallions. Serve directly from the skillet over steamed rice, with crusty bread, or on its own.

Nutrition (per serving)

Zucchini Beef Skillet — The Meal I Made After We Finally Said “Umma”