Nena’s way

The thing about liver is that it’s not very forgiving. Cook it too quickly and you get a bloody mush, too long and it turns leathery. You need to watch out for that brief window when it goes from being gelatinous to supple, seared bloodless yet moist and creamy inside. That’s the only time it gets to be any good.

That was my problem right there. I had made a botch of cooking liver a few times too many that I soon began to regard the damned offal with something approaching dread. That was when Ma decided to intervene.

“Child,” she began, “you want to do proper liver, you do it like Nena.” Nena was her late mother, twice married, twice widowed, and, if my mother is to be believed, the greatest tightwad in the long history of penny-pinching matriarchs. I like to think that it was precisely that character trait which enabled her to raise a small army of children — twelve, to be exact. Ma further claims she had never once received a single centavo from my lola; I’ve always felt that was laying it on too thick, although now that I think of it I’m not so sure anymore.

This much I know: Lola was a mean cook. How else to explain the gaggle of extended relatives and other characters who hung out at her house? It couldn’t have been just the mahjongg — it got harder and harder to assemble a quorum after she passed away. In less than three years the place was practically deserted, a ghost of its former self. Fire took care of the rest.

“Hey,” Ma said. “Give it here.”

Huh?

“Your hand, stupid.” She was holding out a slab of pork liver. “Feel it. See? You throw half-frozen liver into the pan and expect it to cook even as it thaws, the same way you boil eggs straight out of the refrigerator and complain when they crack. Room temperature. Remember.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Now slice. That thing’s not gonna slice itself, is it?”

I trust you’ve handled liver. It’s slimy and messy. Don’t tell Ma, but I prefer to deal with liver when it’s semi-frozen; it’s easier to handle and you get more uniform slices that way. You also get less goo on your cutting board, which is just as well because that bloody liquid makes for a rich, creamy sauce. Liver itself doesn’t absorb much flavor (if at all) so you can use as much (or as little) soy sauce as you like, depending on your taste and the amount of sauce you want to end up with. Round out the marinade with a pinch of sugar, a dash of Chinese cooking wine (optional), and a teaspoon of cornstarch.

“Don’t blink,” said Ma. “This is going to be quick.” And it was. She sautéed lots of sliced onions until translucent, removed that from the skillet, to which she added more oil and waited for it to reach smoking point. Then in went the liver, marinade and all. She let that sizzle for about a minute before turning over to sizzle for a minute more. A quick stir after that, then the onions were added back to the pan. Stir, scrape, stir some more. Tick-tock, tick-tock, went the clock. Click.

That was the stove being turned off.

“That’s it? But how can you tell?”

“I can’t.” Then she threw in a shrug for good measure.

I must have looked as lost as I felt. “Look,” she finally said, “God gave you fingers. Go ahead, pick up some of that liver. Too tender? Feels under-cooked. He gave you eyes. See blood? Appears under-cooked. Want to know what under-cooked tastes like? That’s what your tongue’s for. Well?”

No thanks; I already knew that by heart. I turned the stove back on, cooked the liver for a minute more, and repeated the drill. Excuse my French, but it turned out bloody perfect.