Up here in the NE, the skies darken and the pressure drops, and Pete Townsend, pants down or not, remains irrelevant compared to the moans of the JBs. I mean: Those shrieks, crashing instruments, and leaps? Puh-leeze.
I’m more tuned into miso broth.
I was just thinking as I made my nightly batch: Wow, is this a cuisine of poverty and terroir or what? Few dishes are as subtle and evocative as miso broth.
Think about it: You take dried fish flakes (bonita) and dried seaweed (kombu) and some water and boil it up. Then you pour the broth through a sieve and into a bowl. Add, through a spoon sieve, miso made from fermented soy, rice, and barley. Stir over a low flame.
Add some greens. Pour over soba in bowls. Add fried fish, if you like.
It’s so soothing. And you can imagine being in a rocky, desolate place–some might say that place is the imagination–where the creative act is in the observation rather than the imposition.
The Who? Who cares?