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Real cooking, it turns out, relies heavily on another lost art: patience.
Of course, I knew I'd need some patience with real cooking. There are pots that simmer for days, pickles that cure for weeks, even brews that age for months. But it wasn't till a full year after we finished the manuscript for The Lost Art of Real Cooking that I learned just how much patience—and faith—I would need when fermenting food.
My miso recipe in the book mentions a miso failure. After days spent culturing koji rice, and months fermenting this particular miso, it flopped. It was alcoholic, yeasty, and unpleasant. At least once a month, I threatened to toss it, as it took up valuable fridge space. But every time, my boyfriend begged me to have mercy on the poor miso, as he thought it "wasn't so bad." Every time I moved to a new apartment, I threatened again to pitch it, but each time, William persuaded me to hang on to it. Mostly, I just pretended it didn't exist, letting it sit in the back of the fridge for months, then years. (I would say that I'm only this lenient on things like miso that don't really mold, but I would be lying.)
On my last move, I finally put my foot down. This miso could not stay. It only reminded me of my failure.
"Well," said William, "First, let's try it, just to be sure. I really don't think it's so bad."
"I'm sure it's terrible," I said, "it went alcoholic two years ago, remember?"
He opened it. "It doesn't smell bad. It smells like soy sauce."
"Really?" I said, "not like alcohol?" and took a whiff. "Oh, you're right! It made tamari on top!" We both plunged our fingers in the tub. It tasted amazing. Deep, dark, incomparably savory. Not a whiff of that alcoholic flavor I so detested. "It's perfect!" I said, "the best ever!"
William liked it so much he wasn't even smug.
Still, I consider that recipe a bit of a flop, so I'm glad I didn't include it in the cookbook—it wasn't supposed to take two years, after all. I suspect that the cold weather in San Francisco had something to do with it taking so long. Or perhaps that particular batch of koji wasn't quite as potent as it ought to be? For now, it's a culinary mystery, and a delicious reminder to revive the lost art of patience.
Note: of course, sometimes the lost art of patience will only benefit your mold gardens. Use your nose before your tongue. Well, unless it's horseradish, in which case you should waft just like your chemistry teacher taught you. I left a jar of fermented grated horseradish root in the fridge once, unlabeled, and went on a trip. My housemate took a curious whiff and nearly fell on the floor. When I came back, the jar was labeled simply, "Hair-on-Your-Chest."
