Washoku // Leek Miso & Butter
There are a lot of different ways to define balance and an equal number of ways to test it. Some ways are easier to define than others. Physically, for example: jumping a horse, walking a tightrope, holding the warrior pose in yoga without falling on your face. Those are clear to me. Other manifestations, less so--mental balance, for instance, is something I'm still figuring out. Some things I hope never to have to figure out, like the dichotomy of 'work and play,' because I hope to always have a playful approach to my work.
When it comes to food, the differences between notions of balance among cultures are striking. In France, the evening meal follows a fixed pattern--so hallowed it has become an item on the UNESCO World Heritage list. First la salade, then le(s) plat(s) principaux, all of it served with a generous glass of wine; after, fromage, a piece of fruit, and finally, a piece of chocolate or a dessert. In many Southeast Asian countries, most meals are served family style, with plates of raw vegetables, fresh herbs, sauces, and wedges of citrus put on the table so diners can season dishes to their liking. That's the reasoning behind the little dishes of bean sprouts, Thai basil, cilantro, and lime that come out with steaming bowls of phở, or the plates of iced mustard greens served alongside spicy dishes at Pok Pok here in Portland.
In Japan, it's called washoku ('harmony of food'). It's not only about balancing the various elements on the plate, but also about the invisible acts that were behind putting food on the table. Pieces of kombu and shiitake mushrooms boiled for dashi and kombu-jiru stocks, for example, become a sweet relish. The drippings from a pan of roasted meat become part of a sauce; bones, needless to say, are reused in stocks. Nothing goes to waste. It's amazing to me how so much creativity comes of thriftiness (this), or accident (chocolate chip cookies), or convenience (slow-cooked eggs). Japanese women used to take baskets of eggs on their bathing excursions, to submerge in the warm spring waters and slowly cook over several hours of luxurious steam baths. I'm a little envious--would it be bad form to take an egg into the sauna with me?
Elizabeth Andoh's Washoku is an amazing resource for home cooking that explains not only how to cook Japanese dishes, but basically takes a tour of the Japanese pantry, explaining ingredients, implements, methods, history--just about everything I want to know to feel comfortable in the kitchen. She describes the five-by-five principles of washoku like this:
I don't think anyone in the world sits down and hammers out a five-principle meal three times a day. Not everything should be five colors; chocolate, for instance, should only ever be one color (unless we're talking about these). Mindfulness is so rooted in Japanese history and heritage that it's been culturally ingrained to the point that I'm sure harried businessmen, when they're not slurping ramen in subway stations, subconsciously pick out multicolored washoku sandwiches. Mostly, I take these principles as an articulation of conscientious eating, which is something I've been aware of ever since I became a vegetarian (and then a vegan, and then a vegan who ate fish, and then a pescetarian, and then someone who eats chicken hearts).
Even though I eat meat now, I eat far, far less of it than the average American or European. Once or twice a week, tops, because I think it's better for me, better for the environment, and better for the animals when I'm supporting farmers who let their cows happily moo their way through acres of grass instead of through the iron bars of some industrial factory that's killing everything in it and around it. True, it's more expensive to buy truly free-range meat (the legal definition is infuriatingly insufficient), and not everyone can afford to eat it every day. But nobody should be eating meat that often. A block of tofu, which packs 70g of protein in five servings, will always be cheaper ($1.99, Trader Joe's, and even cheaper at the Asian grocery store) than five servings of the cheapest hamburger meat. Beans and pulses are even cheaper.
Beyond considerations of meat, though, it's important to think of food at every stage of the process, because no one else is going to do it for you. Industrial agriculture has so alienated the cultivation of food from its arrival on the plate that I'm sure half the kids in this country think cereal grows on trees (I'm looking at you, Froot Loops). It's not a trivial issue. Eating is something we do at least three times a day, and the sheer amount of money, power, lobbying, chemicals, and blood that go into its preparation is staggering. So go forth and support your farmers markets or CSAs! Or buy organic produce (although I have major problems with 'organic' in this country, it's unequivocally better than conventional ninety percent of the time), eat less processed food, eat less meat, discover tofu (although soy can also be a problem: man, being conscientious can be complicated).
This soapbox has started sagging in the middle from all the time I've spent standing on it--again, not my intention, but I keep writing these things in one mindset and finishing in entirely another--so I'll end with the most convincing argument I can: a recipe for the leek miso I made for the tofu pictured below. I've been smearing it on everything from raw carrots to crackers, and even made it into a compound butter. It's an unexpectedly good match with goat cheese, too, which I tossed on a whim into a bowl of roasted carrots--everything gets all melty and warm, it's delicious.
Leek Miso | negi miso
adapted from Elizabeth Andoh's Washoku
makes about 1/2 cup
To clean those notoriously gritty leeks: trim off its straggly little root-beard and then slice the whole thing lengthwise. Submerge in water and swish around before draining. Prepare as needed.
1 leek, white and light green parts finely minced*
1 tsp sesame oil (or any other kind, but not toasted, since you're essentially toasting it in the pan)
1/3 cup miso of choice (I used white; Andoh recommends mugi)
2 tbsp mirin or cooking wine
1 tbsp sugar
3-4 tbsp mild stock or water (I happened to have, uh, rabbit stock in the freezer, so I used that. It is not, however, mild in the slightest.)
In a small skillet, heat the oil over medium heat. Sweat the leeks until translucent, about a minute, then add miso, mirin, and sugar and stir until bubbly. Add the stock and continue to simmer for a few minutes, scraping down the side with a silicone spatula (it tends to get sticky), until you have a sauce the consistency of ketchup. Remove from heat and cool before refrigerating in a glass jar. This'll keep for about six weeks, but I lack that kind of restraint.
Extra Recipe! Compound Leek-Miso Butter
Soften as much unsalted butter as you'd like to use, and then smash that together with the leek miso using a strong fork. I use a ratio of butter to miso that's about 3:1, but use that only as a guideline--the outcome depends on how salty your miso was (which is why you probably don't want to use salted butter) and how salty you like your butter. Chances are you will want to make more butter than you think you'll want, because you'll have to lick some off the fork to test it, and then lick some more, and yes, this stuff is so good you will feel no shame about licking butter plain.
* Every recipe I've ever seen has simply discarded the dark green leek leaves, but I think it's in the washoku spirit--and damn delicious--to slice them and then blanch them in a boiling pot of salted water. Takes a little longer to soften than the other parts, but I like 'em in warm salad or mixed into an omelet...or even okonomiyaki.
In Japan, it's called washoku ('harmony of food'). It's not only about balancing the various elements on the plate, but also about the invisible acts that were behind putting food on the table. Pieces of kombu and shiitake mushrooms boiled for dashi and kombu-jiru stocks, for example, become a sweet relish. The drippings from a pan of roasted meat become part of a sauce; bones, needless to say, are reused in stocks. Nothing goes to waste. It's amazing to me how so much creativity comes of thriftiness (this), or accident (chocolate chip cookies), or convenience (slow-cooked eggs). Japanese women used to take baskets of eggs on their bathing excursions, to submerge in the warm spring waters and slowly cook over several hours of luxurious steam baths. I'm a little envious--would it be bad form to take an egg into the sauna with me?
- colors (go shiki): use a collage of red, yellow, green, black, and white
- tastes (go mi): balance salty, sour, sweet, bitter, and spicy flavors
- ways (go ho): prepare food differently--simmering, broiling, steaming, pickling, fermenting, dry-aging, the list only grows with the gadgets we invent (or rediscover)
- senses (go kan): integrate sight, sound, smell, and texture--this is where the emphasis on presentation and aesthetics comes in--
- outlooks (go kan mon): consider how your meal was prepared, who contributed, why you're eating, among other mindful thought practices, strongly rooted in Buddhism
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Even though I eat meat now, I eat far, far less of it than the average American or European. Once or twice a week, tops, because I think it's better for me, better for the environment, and better for the animals when I'm supporting farmers who let their cows happily moo their way through acres of grass instead of through the iron bars of some industrial factory that's killing everything in it and around it. True, it's more expensive to buy truly free-range meat (the legal definition is infuriatingly insufficient), and not everyone can afford to eat it every day. But nobody should be eating meat that often. A block of tofu, which packs 70g of protein in five servings, will always be cheaper ($1.99, Trader Joe's, and even cheaper at the Asian grocery store) than five servings of the cheapest hamburger meat. Beans and pulses are even cheaper.
Beyond considerations of meat, though, it's important to think of food at every stage of the process, because no one else is going to do it for you. Industrial agriculture has so alienated the cultivation of food from its arrival on the plate that I'm sure half the kids in this country think cereal grows on trees (I'm looking at you, Froot Loops). It's not a trivial issue. Eating is something we do at least three times a day, and the sheer amount of money, power, lobbying, chemicals, and blood that go into its preparation is staggering. So go forth and support your farmers markets or CSAs! Or buy organic produce (although I have major problems with 'organic' in this country, it's unequivocally better than conventional ninety percent of the time), eat less processed food, eat less meat, discover tofu (although soy can also be a problem: man, being conscientious can be complicated).
This soapbox has started sagging in the middle from all the time I've spent standing on it--again, not my intention, but I keep writing these things in one mindset and finishing in entirely another--so I'll end with the most convincing argument I can: a recipe for the leek miso I made for the tofu pictured below. I've been smearing it on everything from raw carrots to crackers, and even made it into a compound butter. It's an unexpectedly good match with goat cheese, too, which I tossed on a whim into a bowl of roasted carrots--everything gets all melty and warm, it's delicious.
Leek Miso | negi miso
adapted from Elizabeth Andoh's Washoku
makes about 1/2 cup
To clean those notoriously gritty leeks: trim off its straggly little root-beard and then slice the whole thing lengthwise. Submerge in water and swish around before draining. Prepare as needed.
1 leek, white and light green parts finely minced*
1 tsp sesame oil (or any other kind, but not toasted, since you're essentially toasting it in the pan)
1/3 cup miso of choice (I used white; Andoh recommends mugi)
2 tbsp mirin or cooking wine
1 tbsp sugar
3-4 tbsp mild stock or water (I happened to have, uh, rabbit stock in the freezer, so I used that. It is not, however, mild in the slightest.)
In a small skillet, heat the oil over medium heat. Sweat the leeks until translucent, about a minute, then add miso, mirin, and sugar and stir until bubbly. Add the stock and continue to simmer for a few minutes, scraping down the side with a silicone spatula (it tends to get sticky), until you have a sauce the consistency of ketchup. Remove from heat and cool before refrigerating in a glass jar. This'll keep for about six weeks, but I lack that kind of restraint.
Extra Recipe! Compound Leek-Miso Butter
Soften as much unsalted butter as you'd like to use, and then smash that together with the leek miso using a strong fork. I use a ratio of butter to miso that's about 3:1, but use that only as a guideline--the outcome depends on how salty your miso was (which is why you probably don't want to use salted butter) and how salty you like your butter. Chances are you will want to make more butter than you think you'll want, because you'll have to lick some off the fork to test it, and then lick some more, and yes, this stuff is so good you will feel no shame about licking butter plain.
* Every recipe I've ever seen has simply discarded the dark green leek leaves, but I think it's in the washoku spirit--and damn delicious--to slice them and then blanch them in a boiling pot of salted water. Takes a little longer to soften than the other parts, but I like 'em in warm salad or mixed into an omelet...or even okonomiyaki.
