Wrapped in Goodness: Protein Rolls, Nina Simone, and Finding Your Own Way

Are you happy? I remember as a kid, whenever I posed this seemingly simple question to adults, it would inevitably send them into an existential tailspin. Now that I've crossed the threshold into adulthood myself, I find myself in that existential spiral. These days, when I reflect on how much of a punk I was by asking that question, I catch myself thinking, "Damn, am I happy?"

I finally finished watching Bojack Horseman this past weekend (I know, I'm five years too late), and this question resurfaced with unexpected clarity during one particular scene. Have you ever experienced a moment in film, television, or literature that suddenly shifts your perspective into perfect clarity? That's what happened here.

Without diving into spoilers, there's a hamster (yes, a hamster) who essentially conveys that sometimes you need to pursue your own happiness, regardless of how it affects others. The message was straightforward yet profound: find happiness for yourself, even if it means disappointing people who care about you. This sentiment has been steeping in my mind like a strong tea, too potent to ignore.

It made me reflect on a situation within our college friend group. A few years back, one of our closest friends disappeared from our lives without warning—like vapor dissolving into air, she was gone. For a long time, many of us couldn't understand why or what triggered this departure. We all crafted our own theories and narratives, but the only certainty was her absence. It was as though we were all breaking bread at our usual table until one ordinary evening, between the pouring of wine and the passing of plates, she quietly excused herself from our lives for good, leaving questions in her wake.

But after watching that Bojack scene, something clicked. The hamster didn't apologize for his actions that disappointed others; he left because he had to. He was pursuing what he needed. Suddenly, my friend's departure came into focus. Perhaps I'm projecting my own interpretation, but I'd like to believe that she finally discovered what she needed—and that path ultimately led away from us.

History is essentially a narrative we tell ourselves of past events. It's entirely possible that even though we shared the same past, we didn’t share the same history. Her recollection of our shared memories differs significantly from mine—two different stories woven from the same threads. Perhaps the stories I hold dear were chapters she needed to close and leave behind.

What I'm trying to say is that we're each responsible for our own happiness, whatever form it takes. Just as it is to important to not compare happiness, it's equally important to take the space and time you need to form your own perspective. There's that saying that time heals all wounds, but maybe it doesn't. Maybe time doesn't heal so much as it adjusts our focus — allowing us to decide which books on the shelves of our minds are for keeps, and which are to be donated to make room for stories yet unwritten.

To that friend who left: I hope you genuinely found happiness. At the time, none of us understood why you left as you did, but maybe I understand a little better now. You might never read this, and we might never speak again, but I sincerely hope you've found happiness, wherever and whenever you are.

In the quiet wake of these existential questions, I find myself turning to the kitchen—where beef rolls offer not happiness exactly, but a certain reliable comfort. This recipe is an adaptation from another Tasty creation I discovered years ago. My former roommate (this one’s for you, babe) and I used to make these semi regularly when inspiration waned but hunger persisted.

I could go on for hours about how dumplings are the quintessential perfect food— a protein wrapped in a carb that can be pan-fried, steamed, or boiled depending on your mood. But these beef rolls invert that structure: vegetables wrapped in protein, then dusted with cornstarch and then simmered a teriyaki-ish sauce. A practical solution for those seeking protein without excessive carbs.

The critical element is finding meat sliced thin enough to function like a wrapper. Western markets like Safeway or Albertsons don’t always stock these Asian-style cuts, but Trader Joe's, Costco, 99 Ranch, or H Mart typically carry them. If the beef slices are too delicate, you can layer several together to make a sturdier wrapper.

For those with an affinity for sugar, adding a bit of brown sugar deepens the sauce and creates a sweeter profile. The dish makes for an easy weeknight prep, and you can adjust it to your preference. Want to make it healthier? Add more water to create something closer to a hot pot style meal. Prefer something crispier? Pan-fry it for that textural contrast.

A Mille-Feuille Nabe would be the “Chef’s Table, deconstructed” version of this — a ‘thousand’ layers of cabbage and thin meat simmered in a broth. I made it once but truth be told, it was more work than I imagined layering each leaf with the meat. I settled for roughly chopped ingredients tossed into the pot — not as visually striking but it was just a regular Wednesday night, not a Chef’s Table photo shoot.

Another version of recipe uses cornstarch to coat the beef and then pan searing it on all its side to achieve that perfect crust, but that is entirely optional. Sometimes my hands get sticky from all that cornstarch, but the crust is nice when you have the time to do it. Paired with a teriyaki-ish sauce (I say -ish because I rarely use the quartet of soy sauce, mirin, sake and sugar; I improvise with whatever I have in the pantry) and you have something that is impressive enough for a date.

I've seen many variations of this dish over the years, but the formula of vegetables wrapped in protein never disappoints. It's consistently satisfying, and let's face it—we all need more vegetables in our lives. After all, a healthy life equals a happy life.

There's something unexpectedly powerful when I heard Nina Simone's vibrato on an animated show about a washed-up celebrity horse. I've known Simone's discography before, but experiencing ‘Stars’ as the season finale to one of many BoJack’s existential crises hits differently—like hearing a new cover of a familiar song you already know well.

For those unfamiliar, BoJack Horseman follows a former sitcom star navigating the shallow waters of Hollywoo while drowning in his own trauma and self-sabotage. What makes the show special isn't watching a hero triumph, but witnessing someone deeply flawed trying—and often failing—to be better. BoJack knows what "better" looks like, but consistently falls short, much like that steaming cup of morning coffee that never quite tastes as good as it smells. People, and in this case horses, come up short of who they aspire to be day after day.

The show brilliantly explores the gap between intention and action. Is BoJack genuinely remorseful when he apologizes, or merely performing what society expects from someone who gets caught? It reminds me of those teachers who insisted "it's not about the grade, it's about the effort"—yet somehow, effort alone never seemed quite enough. Almost doesn’t count.

Nina Simone's "Stars" playing over crucial moments in the series captures this bittersweet reality perfectly. The song speaks to how moments—whether beautiful or painful—are ephemeral. Stardom might come fast or slow, but it eventually dims into darkness, much like BoJack's fleeting periods of growth before the inevitable return to old habits.

It reminds me of what Neil Patrick Harris once said about riding the waves of fame —catching a break feels great but it all comes to an end inevitably and you never know your good breaks from your bad ones until they've passed. The same applies to life's moments of clarity or connection. We rarely recognize our best days while we're living them, and BoJack's journey illustrates how easily we can sabotage them while searching for something that doesn’t really exists.

Have you watched a show that unexpectedly moved you with its soundtrack? I'd love to hear which songs have transformed your viewing experiences. Reply to this email to let me know.

Savoring this moment with you,

Kevin L