Miso Memory

by Hannah Gregory

We would go to the small mall on the corner. First up to the third floor, from the basement carpark to the video rental, then down to the second floor for the restaurant. At the video rental I chose things like Beethoven (I & II), Turner & Hooch, and the Macauley Culkin ones. The chat between them about whether or not she liked or had seen a certain movie or series was more interesting to me than choosing a film for myself, so I earwigged while browsing the video boxes, to their chat which was grown-up, without being dull, maybe even cool. I listened, to find out. Later I would watch the movies in the darkened front room, and was given a dessert pot of Mövenpick or a Häagen Dazs ice on a stick; just me and the two dogs – jet-lagged, alone, and, for now, just fine.

The furnishings of the restaurant were soft pinkish red with dark wood and papery screens dividing the dining booths around the edges of the room. I knew what I wanted right away – I suppose because someone had suggested I have it before – tempura udon soup, with prawns, or maybe just veg: sweet potato slices in crisp shells, lotus root, and something stalky and green; the prawns’ tails fanning out of their coats which fell off into the broth as I ate. Particulates of soybean paste sitting cloudy in the dashi stock, and sharp bright scallions scattered over the top, as I fished for the disintegrating batter with a deep soup spoon.

Digging down into the bowl the fat chewy noodles would stir, slippery noodles that you were allowed to slurp. I learnt this in a different noodle bar where the chefs behind the counter stretched and cut long lengths of elastic dough. I was wondering about the noisy eaters all around me, and he told me that slurping was, in fact, a technique developed to suck up the dripping noodles fast without burning the sides of your mouth. With chopsticks I was already proficient because she had bought me a training pair with rings to put your thumb and two fingers through on my first visit, somehow incredulous that this six year old was not already agile.

The miso with udon was the first I’d tasted and the only one I would know for some time – back in Nottingham in the nineties there weren’t any Japanese restaurants. When I returned to the grey concrete of my school playground during lunch break, I would crave the comforting warmth and saltiness of the broth, and the sweet bite of the prawns – that, or the feeling of being away, alone, and just fine.

 

Tomato Cabbage and Egg Soup

Warmness.
It was after my first ever survival training the the Royal Canadian Air Cadets. I had spent three long days sleeping and training on dirt soaked with water and covered with rotten leaves in a remote forest. It was a typical Canadian winter — heavy rain, cold biting wind, and despair in my heart. I’ve been struggling to stuff freezing MRE into my mouth because food was essential to survival in such a grim environment. My tongue refused to taste yet my stomach screamed in coldness and hunger. Each night I slept with my eyes open in the small tent I built by myself with few sticks I found and a piece of “waterproof” fabric the RCAC provided. The overwhelming Water droplets squeezed into the gaps of the fabric and danced on my face. I’d count each second until 6:15 AM — when the blaring sound of the bugle would wake us up and… another day.

I memorize all these trivial details so vividly partly because of my deteriorating mental state throughout the three days of training. I can clearly recall that on the last night I convinced myself to not die because the next morning I could go home.
I don’t know how to describe the relief I felt when I saw that familiar white SUV parked in front of the doors at the squadron’s headquarter. My dad welcomed me with a smiling face and a warm embrace. I felt grateful looking at the interior of my house — the ceramic lamp was giving off a dim and soft light, the baby blue blanket made by mom covered a corner of the sofa, and my little betta fish named Jayden swam cheerfully in his little home. My dad said to me, “ you must be hungry! Let me make something quick for you.” and hurried to the kitchen. Soon enough, I smelled a mouthwatering aroma from the kitchen — something that’s one hundred times better than MRE…no, maybe two hundred times. My dad came to me with a bowl of steaming tomato cabbage and egg soup, a simple Chinese homemade dish. The red sliced tomatoes and jade green cabbage leaves made a bright contrast. The vegetable soup was embellished with golden fried egg omelette so that it tasted both refreshing and flavourful. The crispiness of the cabbage, the silky egg omelette, and a slight touch of sweet and sour tomatoes danced in harmony. No doubt, it was the perfect dish for me at that particular night — simple yet invigorating. Its warmth not only went down my throat and soothed my empty stomach but also went directly to my heart. It might have been the steam coming out of the soup but by the moment I took the first sip I was immediately misty-eyed.

That bowl of tomato cabbage and egg soup was the most delicious meal I’ve had for really long time, and I think it’s because of its taste of home.

Egg Drop Soup

by Anonymous, London

I was staying with an American family one spring in Connecticut. I was twenty. My host, a woman whose family my mother had au paired for when she was young, was leaving the house for lunch. In order to ensure that I had food to eat she had ordered some simple food from a Chinese restaurant that we went to collect before she delivered me home. I can’t remember if there was anything else to the meal except this – but I remember the egg drop soup, not just for its elegantly self explanatory name. It was a broth with a few scant noodles and silky filaments of egg that must have been dropped and stirred into not quite boiling soup. Every time I have tried to replicate this I have ended up with a cloud of shapeless egg fragments or great hunks of fluffy egg. I think the secret must be to do with the temperature and the way the egg is dropped. It is one of those meals I sometimes think about researching – to find out exactly what it was I ate and how I should make it. It is better left as a mystery, and when I finally manage to replicate the effect of that simple and delightful lunch, it will be all the more satisfying.

nettle soup

My mother makes the most wonderful nettle soup. She picks the stinging nettles when they are young and tender. The soup is a family symbol of spring. It is grass green and vibrant and tastes of nature and new beginnings. The soup is served with fluffy miniature yeast pancakes, a pure indulgence.