Who's Your Umami?

Miso is a traditional Japanese seasoning produced by fermenting soybeans with salt and the fungus Aspergillus oryzae, known in Japanese as koji, and sometimes rice, barley, or other ingredients. I peer into the darkness of winter from a November now behind us. Yet we remain equidistant from the low swinging sun, simply on the other side, the winter solstice now behind us. Still, it is dark. Winter remains a long slog towards a higher arcing sun. It makes sense somehow that the allure of a food that seems equally wintery— dark, earthy, mysterious—draws me to it. Miso. The fermented food from Japan considered a bedrock of Japanese cuisine.

Densely nutritious, nurturing. It is most often used in soups and simmered dishes, vegetable glazes, and as a marinade for meat. Miso is a key ingredient of one of our family’s favorite soups, Red Rosemary Soup, made with red lentils, beets, and miso. I eat this soup and feel my blood wake up, cheeks flush. Produced today in factories, miso historically was made in the home. This leaves miso with a strong association of comfort—of home. Miso activates one of our five core tastes. Taste receptors for umami, ‘the essence of deliciousness’ in Japanese, were identified on human tongue only in 2002—alongside our sweet, sour, salty, and bitter taste buds. The flavor has been around longer than that; 1,300 years for miso. Miso is produced much like wine; in large casks of Japanese cedar.O

ne of miso’s three essential ingredients—koji, the mold that allows for fermentation—is much like a sourdough starter unique to a batch of bread. How the microbes interact with the specific climate conditions within the walls of the fermentation room is much like a play about the marriage of science and poetry. Variations in flavor come from fermentation times and variations on quantities of soybeans, grains, and koji starter used. Each Japanese household had its own recipe for miso. Purportedly, there are one thousand types of miso, though the types can be roughly categorized by color and grain. There’s rice miso, soybean bean miso, and barley miso. Regional differences—in climate, in crops—create regional flavors. West Japan, where barley grows readily, naturally is known for its barley miso. Then there’s the color of miso: white (shiromiso) with a relatively shorter fermentation time and smooth even taste, red (akamiso) with a longer fermentation period bringing on more complex fully developed flavors, used to make miso soup, and a blend of white and red (awase), which many consider the best of both worlds. Generally, the darker in color, the saltier and stronger the taste; the lighter, the milder and sweeter.A

virtual tour I took through one Japanese miso factory showed me the batches of miso made, then stored in vast wooden vats nearly seven feet high and wide. As batches are added, the miso is compressed by foot to squeeze out air pockets, then left to ferment and mature over time—three years, at this factory. The miso is moved once a year—into a different barrel and into a different room. Much talk on the virtual tour revolved around the climate within each specific room. As miso ages, the sharpness of the salt recedes and the flavor deepens. On my virtual tour, I glean the understanding that the complexity of miso parallels the complexity of wine—the tongue recognizes a young miso, which might be just fine for your everyday miso versus the long-aged special occasion miso. Fermentation science is simple. Yet it folds in the mystery of place, the dark art of fungi, the ingredient of time. Indeed, miso owes its complexity to the fact of fermentation. Dare we call it, the complexity that comes with age?

When I mentioned my miso research to friends in the Valley, I learned of the Israeliborn British chef Yotam Ottolenghi and his newest cookbook that includes a recipe for Sticky Miso Bananas with Brown Sugar and Lime. The description goes like this: “This dessert ticks all of our flavour boxes – sweet, salty, tangy, umami — and all of our texture boxes — sticky, crunchy, and creamy.” Other recipes of Ottolenghi’s include Leeks with Miso and Chives (which explains that the punchy dressing pairs with mildly sweet leeks or new potatoes, and maybe as well drizzle it over fish, chicken, or tofu while you’re at it), and Gochujang Braised Eggs with Potato. In my fantasy world, I will sample all these dishes soon; but most likely, since I often need to feed myself quickly, and my kids, we’ll be trying the Tuna & Miso Cheese Toastie recipe found on misotasty.com—good old fashioned canned tuna blended with white miso, mirin, and the tiniest amount of fresh ginger. A twist on our usual tuna melts.

Miso is rich in minerals and rich in vitamins, along with being high in protein. Miso is rich in enzymes making it a probiotic. Oh, and did I mention The New York Times recipe that my tween made together with her grandpa this fall? The Miso-Maple Loaf Cake was a savory-sweet-citrus soft surprise. What’s said of miso and vitality is much like what’s said of apples and health here in the west. The Japanese saying goes, “One bowl of miso soup gives three leagues of energy” and the more direct, “Miso soup kills a doctor.” That’s right, a bowl a day just might keep the doctor away. Recipes and flavors built around miso seem limitless— I hope you find yourself inspired to explore.

Sarah Stoner grew up in Uganda, Morocco, Belgium, and Thailand and lived in the U.S for the first time at age 18. Folks like her who spent their childhoods outside of their passport country are called Third Culture Kids or Cross-Cultural Kids. Time and place are ingredients that create complexity and depth of flavor in all of us. What’s your flavor?