Karin’s hair curled every which way. Winsome loops escaped every attempt her barrettes made to hold them captive. They strayed casually like a spring stream flowing beyond it’s banks. She stood before the stove and whisked the fragrant onions in a shallow pool of buttery oil. Intermittently, she instructed Anne & I with her musical voice, “We do not fry, we braise the onions.” This was our first time at Karin’s Three-Bowl Club. Anne & I watched and listened and even helped Karin to prepare a meal designed for the Orioki bowl set. The gems on the clip above her ear sparkled from the steam that rose from the pot.
Karin’s delectable accent made my ears twist then turn to sort the familiar from the foreign. I felt like such a klutz whenever my brain failed to grasp her message. Maybe it was her dialect or maybe it was the speed and enthusiasm that swept through each sentence. Either way, Karin seemed to have an endless reservoir of patience for my requests to repeat herself.
Stirring three pots simultaneously then disclosing, “Normally, I would add a broth to the pea soup, but since Anne is gluten sensitive I will just add water and more salt”. Karin read the tiny Japanese characters on the ingredients label of the package of Yuki shio (snow-salt) pastries. Since it contained some rye flour, Anne chose to nosh on sliced pears and roasted nuts instead.
Anne arranged three bowls in order of size for each place setting. The largest one on the far left is called the Buddha Bowl and the smallest on the far right is called the third bowl. Karin cooked a hearty risotto for the Buddha bowl. She stewed it in garlic, lemon and broth then garnished it with basil. Later she informed us that shitakes have a small amount of protein. The dried mushrooms were soaked in water then stir-fried with Chinese broccoli and her prized home grown kale. She covered the pan and set it aside to be used later for the third bowl.
Karin wiped her hands on her worn jeans, offered us her reassuring smile then announced, “I’ll be right back!”. She dashed out the kitchen door without an apron or a sweater and headed for Jikoji’s hilltop garden. She pushed open the squeaky wooden gate, shooed the clucking chickens away from the kale, then snipped a bunch of bright green chives.
In the mean time, Anne and I commented on the colorful ranunculus flowers in the vase on the table. She chopped carrots and I nibbled on nuts. Karin soon returned acknowledging how much she enjoys cooking with fresh foods from the garden. The pockets of her blue jeans were stuffed with chives. Long thin stems bent over her pockets just like the the hair that overflowed from the barrette on the back of her head. She thanked Anne for doing such a nice job cutting the veggies on a diagonal. After scooping up the bright carrot chunks, she boiled them with the buttery onions and salty water.
Karin peeked into the pot and sniffed the soup while it boiled. She was pleased with the scent and continued to add sprinkles of salt. “It’s time to blend!” she announced. The powerful pulse of the churning motor whipped and tossed the carrots into a smooth puree. The last ingredient added was a package of thawed peas. The three of us watched the colors in the glass pitcher change from bright orange to vivid green.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. It had never occurred to me to simply thaw a package of frozen peas so that in only minutes I would be enjoying a scrumptious soup. In my mind, pea soup was served only after soaking rock hard peas all day, coaxing them to relax with comforting lullabies, boiling them for hours, then letting them soak long into the night . Even then, there were those few stubborn peas that refused to give up their armor making it necessary for me to strain, mash and murmur tasteless words.
It took less then ten or fifteen minutes of prep before Anne and I were asked to sample the soup. To our surprise it was rich with flavor. The onions merged into the creamy texture as the salty surface offset the buttery bottom. This was the most satisfying pea soup either of us ever tasted. Karin cradled the steaming pot on one hip. She didn’t bother with pot holders claiming, “My hands are used to heat!” While ladling pea soup, first one guest arrived then another an another. Passers by must have been compelled by the tantalizing aromas broadcasting Karin’s culinary craft. Karin searched the cupboards for more bowls.
The table was soon covered with over 21 bowls. Karin served all six guests generously. Delicate green pea soup was poured into the second bowl. She added a dollop of creamy white coconut milk into it’s bright green center, sprinkled chives on top, then topped it off with a single round pea for texture. She also prepared miso soup as an alternate for second bowl. After everyone was served we offered a short Japanese prayer, then bowed before our three bowls filled with just enough.
The following week I felt all abuzz with Karin’s contagious creativity. I decided to offer my husband and daughter her seemingly effortless pea soup. Carrots spilled into the pot from the cutting board like marbles off a tilted tray. With shear pleasure, I emptied a package of peas into the blender. I gave it a spin then I dipped my spoon in search of that distinct favor. The one flavor that would turn my attention inward, the way a grape is drawn in toward its own sweetness. I kept searching all the way until dinnertime. Despite my failed attempts to find “it”, I felt confident that my family would appreciate my soup.
The day was just as cold, the frozen peas were just as thawed, the carrots just as orange and the chives just as fresh, yet something about the color just didn’t seem right. I assured myself that looks were deceiving and picked up the pot with my bare hands, ”Ouch!”. Instantly, I grabbed the stained potholders off the hook and served the pea soup.
After one swallow my husband and daughter cocked their heads, looked sideways at each other, and twisted up their faces . Something was missing I thought. “Maybe it needs a little more salt”, I suggested. They both decided a bowl of rice was more then enough.
Now I realize that even the simplest recipe can stump a cook. Despite the fact that I followed explicit instructions, my pea soup was no match for Karin’s. A ancient ingredient must have dropped from the aged redwood rafters and into her soup. Perhaps a chill wind carrying a secret season from fields far away, slipped through the kitchen door, a hiccup spewed a spice overboard from a neighboring pot and into her deep green peas. More likely a subtle element gets birthed the moment the cook heats the kitchen, the guest meets the bowl, the tongue reaps what’s been sown. An element that’s too elusive to be measured by spoon, cup, or even a smart meter. No matter how it manifests, it’s not the ingredients, the recipe, nor the ease of it’s repetition that satisfies, but the way it invites us to simmer in it’s mysteries.
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