I know I’m not the only one eating less meat these days. I’m not a vegetarian (and probably never will be) but today I crossed a line. There’s no going back now. It’s rather embarrassing to admit, but this was my first time cooking with tofu. I KNOW. But wait! Before you hit “send” on that hate mail, please don’t get the wrong idea. I’ve never been a flag-waving member of the carnivorous denomination known to proudly and lustily consume animal flesh on a daily basis. Ok, so I did go through a wee bit of a steakhouse phase when I first moved to Chicago, but doesn’t that just go along with the whole locavore movement? Embracing the cornucopia of beef varieties native to the Midwest region as one might embrace, say, maple syrup in New England?
Back to my tofu story. I just never really saw the point in cooking with tofu. So obsessed am I with cooking with vegetables that I always felt that tofu was just… dead weight. Not to mention that all of life is a trade off, you choose this over that, don’t you? And so I felt that tofu would take up valuable recipe real estate. Tofu would, inevitably, replace far more deserving, flavorful ingredient candidates. I cringed to think that the vibrance of a sweet potato in the winter or the assertiveness of an eggplant in the summer would lose its rightful place in a dish to a spongy block of white stuff floating about in murky water, unappetizingly packaged in a plastic sarcophagus, and evoking traumatic childhood memories of Lunchables.