Like many others, when the weather starts getting chilly, I too enjoy a warm cup of miso. Usually things that bring you comfort are always related to your childhood but I didn’t grow up with miso soup, in fact I think I only ever had it after I came to the US. I think miso soup is the first thing in this unknown place which has been able to make me truly happy.
I can’t remember the first time I had miso soup, but I know how I must have felt, cause I feel the same way everytime- happy and warm. Maybe it’s the little pieces of silk tofu in it which confused me at first cause they look an awful lot like paneer. Maybe it’s that I need to constantly stir it otherwise the miso particles get suspended and it gives my hands something to do. Maybe it’s the little seaweed pieces in it that make me feel healthy. Whatever the reason might be, I really like miso soup. I like it so much that a while back, I decided to try making it myself. I got miso paste and scallions and the little seaweed pieces. I was ready– prepared to master this dish that I am a foreigner to.
I tried to follow the recipe religiously. “Don’t let the miso boil or it will lose its taste”, the recipe screamed. So I stood there staring at it to make sure my soon-to-be perfect cup of miso knew– I was there, waiting for it, whenever it decided to be ready. Not too soon and not too late. I tried to be patient with it because that is how you are supposed to treat the things you love- with patience and care. And as you might have guessed, I do in fact love miso deeply. I like to think my cup of soup knew this. It’s in the way I have been thinking about it for months. It’s in the way I go out of my way to learn about it. It’s in the way that I tried to become adventurous for it, experimenting with new dishes just cause they come with a side of miso.
But miso has not been kind to me. Everytime I have tried to make miso, it always ends up the same way– sad and cold. Sometimes it’s too salty, sometimes the tofu is not smooth enough and sometimes the flavour is too much for me. I think after all the time we spent together, miso decided that I am not worth loving back. I will always be a foreigner to this beautiful dish. However, after these months of trying to make it my own and failing, I have found that Miso is no longer comforting for me. Maybe it was always supposed to be this way. Maybe a good cup of miso can only be made by someone who grew up with a household that made miso. Maybe it’s because they can understand it in a way I, despite my best efforts, just can’t. Maybe we are too different for this to ever work. Maybe this love is too one-sided.
So on the next cold winter day when I am craving miso, I will remind myself that it’s not worth running back to things which don’t consider you worthy. Maybe I need to give up miso to find a different warm cup to heat up my hands, which will love me the way I love miso. Until then, I will just rub my hands so my fingers aren’t cold. Until then, I will just miss miso soup.
