Miso and Memory

A few years ago one of my tentative food adventures was miso soup. Not from scratch. Not in a restaurant. Annie Chun's in an eco-bowl in the makeshift kitchen at work.

I'm not sure what I expected from that cautious venture, but it certainly wasn't a trip down memory lane.

There was a hint when boiling water hit seasoning paste, smeared over noodles. And when I removed the lid three minutes later.

But when the first mouthful hit my taste buds and my olfactory nerve, I was suddenly in a very different place. Fermented rice and soy became fresh-baked white bread and sweet Manischewitz communion wine, in the upper room that was church for me when I was twelve years old.

With taste and smell came feelings, deep and overwhelming, seductive and terrifying.

I made miso soup from scratch tonight for the first time. The fermented broth still tastes sacred to me, to this non-theistic, religious, humanistic naturalist. And it is. It all is. Then, and now, and for as many tomorrows as come my way.