At least once a week, I arrive home from the office I share with a dozen other writers and, overwhelmed with hunger, immediately begin to cook. I pull out my scratched enamelware pot. I measure in rice, quinoa and water with a generous pinch of salt and set it on the stove to cook. I take a block of medium-firm tofu from its package, pat it dry, slice it into pieces and drizzle it with Bragg’s liquid aminos, soy sauce’s unfermented hippie cousin. Then I rummage through the crisper for leafy greens or broccoli — whatever I can find —

)