Life in a Nutshell

Winter "Warm You Up" Soup

Even though March is slogging its way through the rest of winter toward spring, the Northern United States is still spinning its cold yarn around me.

Chilly, damp, and grey the weather makes my fingers and nose cold. I feel the need to make soup, which brought up a memory.

The spring of 1994 was the first time I met my mother-in-law. As a wide-eyed girl of twenty, I had been invited to her house for dinner by my then boyfriend, now husband. She wanted to meet the girl her son was dating. He and I were both 'only' children, so meeting our families was a big deal.

She was gorgeous. Maybe four-foot-ten, barely ninety pounds. Her white hair in a pristine self-permed curly bob. Her clothing was outdated, but impeccable. Her smile caught my attention first. It was just like her son's, only in a small feminine form.I instantly felt an affinity for this small person who I knew would mean so much to me.

As a native of Tokyo, she came over to southern Oregon in the late 1960s to marry the man she had fallen in love with. I didn't know that story the night I met her, though. We were just learning about each other, but she was very polite, very friendly, inquisitive and had prepared an incredible meal for us.

Since my boyfriend was half Japanese, I had an intense interest in Japanese food. And because he was a fan, so was I. I soaked up anything he was willing to teach me.

That night was a mix of Japanese samples I had never tasted before.

The menu consisted of the dishes my boyfriend loved and wanted to introduce to me. So, she had made a feast that started with Inari-zushi.

Pillowy pockets of seasoned rice stuffed inside fried bean curd soaked in a sweet-savory syrup. They're still one of my favorite treats. I make a plate once or twice a year.

Then came the Sukiyaki served in a bubbling skillet set carefully in the middle of the table with a small grunt and delicate epithet of "ush-ah".

Once plugged in, that skillet kept simmering during the whole meal.

She explained, as best she could in her Pidgin, what each of the items were as they steamed before me in the sake-soaked beef broth.

First was the very best thinly sliced prime beef she could find, then large squares of soft tofu, then shirataki yam noodles, sliced fresh Shiitake mushrooms, sliced onion, and crunchy bean sprouts. Lengths of green onion were laid on top to steam right at the table.

Each of these things had their own place of honor in the deep electric skillet. They were not mixed together like an American stew. That was important.

With a long pair of chopsticks, she would separate each portion of ingredients in case they got too close together, while the sake broth simmered everything together.

This was served over sticky rice, with a side of simple cucumber maki.

The maki roll was slathered with wasabi paste inside and I had never had wasabi before. Even with the warnings I was given, they both stopped eating to watch my reaction as I bit into my first piece and thought my face was going to explode.

You haven't had real wasabi until you've had it prepared by a small vigorous Japanese woman. She liked the modern spicy horseradish style wasabi.Even back then the original root was hard to find.

About a year later, with all of our relationships flourishing, we came to visit more frequently. Most of the time to offer help.

It wasn't unusual for us to come over to her house at least twice a month, especially during a particularly cold and dreary winter. We were going to do some brush work and yard clearing this Sunday. She had severe rheumatoid arthritis and lived alone; her husband had passed away many years before. So, her son was her handyman and yard crew. But I heartily helped every chance we got.

In her limited English she invited us to stay for dinner, but was apologetic, as it was just soup and rice. We came in to warm ourselves by her raging wood stove, and I smelled the soup she had simmering on the top.

"Oh, what is that? It smells so good?"

I sniffed closer to the source and felt my face singe in the triple digit heat that surrounded the glowing cherry barrel.

"This... Kenchin Jiru." She beamed at me and stirred the pot with a neighboring wooden spoon.

"Oh, what does that mean?" I asked with interest. I didn't know Japanese, but I knew a good soup when I smelled one.

She opened her mouth, but then closed it. Shook her head and thought for a moment. Then she looked at me, and replied, "this Winter-Warm-You-Up soup. All vegetable, very good for you. Poor country people eat this, after working in cold weather. I make after wartime. It keep for three day on stove. No need for fridge."

I was piqued. I had to know what this was. After we ate, I got a piece of notepaper and asked her questions, trying to deconstruct what made this soup so wonderful. And it was absolutely fantastic.

In a large pot you combine:

One block of tofu torn, not cubed.

One bag of fingerling potatoes, sliced in half.

Most of one head of Napa cabbage, roughly chopped.

Three to five large carrots peeled and sliced on a diagonal (the slicing is important).

One block of Konyaku or yam cake, torn, not chopped. Konyaku is primarily found only in Asian groceries. I've found that Shirataki noodles work as well, when Konyaku isn't available.

One long or two shorter Gobo (Burdock roots) peeled and sliced in thin medallions.

One large Daikon radish sliced in medallions, then quartered.

Two Lotus roots peeled and sliced if you can find them. (They're not necessary, if you can't find them.)

Add water to cover the vegetables.
Add Shoyu or Tamari until the broth is savory, (about half a cup or more).

That's it. Now you need patience.

The best way to make this soup is to start it early in the day, and let it simmer on a wood stove all afternoon. However, we don't have a wood stove, nor that much time.

I usually simmer mine for an hour and a half, or until all the vegetables are soft. Then sample the broth and add Tamari to taste. There is no other seasoning.

But unless you knew it, you would insist there was other flavoring here. It's full of that elusive Umami that Japanese food can be known for. The vegetables meld together in a very soothing, warm way and become a filling meal.

It's always best the next day too. Leftovers usually taste better in my opinion.

Every time I make this soup, I think of my mother-in-law who's been gone now for twelve years.She was such an amazing woman. She survived World War II as a teen and watched her mother die from pneumonia complicated by radiation. She owned a hair salon in Tokyo. Started over with a new husband in a foreign country and had her only child in her forties. She had such resilience and fortitude in the face of tragedy and pain. I've always wanted to emulate more than her cooking.

But these are all stories, that while need to be told, are for a different day.

If you try this recipe, please let me know how you like it.

Itadakimasu