Caci’s single-serving seaside fish stew
A rendered video of Caci’s idyllic seaside cottage. Stew on the stove. Bowls on the table. Bread and lemon to the side. A glass of white. And in the background, the glorious sea. A bluebird stops to say hello in his own way.
Preface: Take heed, this blog isn't written the way I write marketing text. It's not quick, bulleted, easy to read, or easy on impatience. It's an exercise in paying attention. In preserving the quality of the moment. In slowing down and remembering what it was like before our brains required an instant dopamine hit and a quick escape. Like any good stew, take a moment to actually read, and by all means, enjoy. (And for critics, this is my comparative sentence structure. Not AI. This is real writing where comparative structures live freely and are welcome to exist. I am not killing my darlings for grammatical stoicism in the age of hyperactive discernment; I kill them when adequately required for storytelling. Let the tools live and lie where they may.)
When you meet Caci (pronounced like the fabric and color khaki), you’ll quickly grow to love her rich, eccentric, grandmotherly character as much as I do. Her name, Caci, is a name I borrowed from my southern great-grandmother on my dad’s side. I remember her happy laugh, her smile, and her fiery-meets-bubbly charm.
And did you know, I’m using her furniture in my own home? She bought a crushed-velvet, pearly-white, mid-century-forward sofa with a straight, long back and comfort enough to take you in and rock you to sleep. Along with that came two wingback chairs: one has the same crushed velvet and the other, the same color but with damask. Likely what she could find at the time for recovering. Unless you’re paying attention, you don’t really see the differences. I have her oversized, marble-topped, round coffee table and two ancient marble-topped side tables as well. Because of this, I love my living room so much. I might have picked them out myself today, should I have had the opportunity afforded by the stores.
Alas, much furniture these days isn’t the same. Built to decay quickly, new sofas are flaccid. Our solid, too heavy for me to lift, sofa isn’t to be found in stores these days. At least, the ones I’m accustomed to.
So my mind reflects on Caci every day, because I’m always around her with these treasures. I wrote “our solid, too heavy…” above because I consider these pieces ours. After Caci passed, my grandmother, Sara, my dad’s mom, inherited them, and she used them well before she passed, too. I remember them covered in plastic. Their delicate, white fabric being preserved as well as possible. Then they were passed to me. The three of us, Caci, Sara, and I, loving these comforts of home in different times and different spaces. Glorious.
All of this said was to introduce Caci, my character in the adventure Maudeline Plum Mercantile. She’s the elderly wise-woman with a talent for tarot (amongst other things). She’s the delicately lacy, floral-loving, smart as a whip, and most squishy of lovable matriarchs, and she lives in my story.
Her cottage is an old, seaside cob-and-stone wonder. Her gardens inspire even the grumpiest of curmudgeons, and nobody leaves without tasting even a small portion of her cooking. And overlooking the sea affords her plenty of opportunities to master fish recipes like no other.
So, today, I’d like to share one of my many go-to recipes inspired by Caci. I call it single serving even though the generous proportions are for two, because it’s portioned for single people. A bowl tonight and another, even richer tomorrow. And oh, it’s delicious. It’s easy, light, and just like Caci, tucks you in at night. If you give it a try, please let me know how you experience it. I’d appreciate it.
Now, on to the recipe…
Fancy a fish stew, sweetheart?
Here she is, my beloved Caci. She’s the spoon-wielding, tarot-reading delight of a human being. She loves you before she’s met you, but beware: she can unalive ‘em with the best of ’em if required.
Here’s what you need, adjust to your taste:
1 tablespoon olive oil or butter (I use oil unless I’m out, then butter adds a richness that invites the gods).
1 leek, white and pale green parts only, thinly sliced
1 small shallot or 1/4 small onion, finely diced
1 garlic clove, minced
1/4 cup dry white wine
1-3/4 cups good broth (vegetable or chicken)
1/2 cup chopped tomatoes or a few good spoonfuls from a can
1 bay leaf
A few sprigs of fresh thyme or a pinch of dried
Salt, pepper
Two 4-oz pieces of cod, cut into large chunks
Fresh parsley and lemon zest to finish.
Pro tip: parsley belongs in every.single.stew recipe. It releases the flavors of whatever’s in the pot. That’s its purpose.
This is what you do:
In a small saucepan or Dutch oven, warm the olive oil or butter over medium-low heat. Add the leeks and shallot. Let them soften slowly, so don’t rush. They should become silky and sweet. If they’re browned? It was too hot. This takes about 7 to 10 minutes, and it’s worth every second.
Add the garlic and cook just until fragrant, about 30 seconds.
Pour in the wine. Let it simmer for 2 to 3 minutes so the alcohol cooks off, and the flavor deepens.
Add the broth, tomatoes, bay leaf, thyme, salt, and pepper. Bring it back up to below boiling and let it cook for about 10 minutes so everything becomes acquainted.
Now slide in your cod. Lower the heat and let it simmer for 7 to 10 minutes, just until the fish is opaque and flakes easily. Keep it medium-low. Don’t boil. Fish prefers it that way. (Excluding the fact that they’d prefer not to be cooked at all, if given the opportunity to make that choice.) Apologies, you old cod.
Taste. Adjust salt. Add a little lemon zest and fresh parsley at the end.
That’s it. This is eating kind and well (Again, ignoring the cod’s experience). A celebration of singleness that tells you you’re allowed to indulge and nurture. Your kitchen, like Caci’s, will smell of leeks and wine and rich herbs, and that’s a very good thing.