Learning The Real Deal (or Learning: The Real Deal)

Senegalese griot Lamine Toure leads the drum ensemble Rambax at MIT, providing sabar drum and dance enthusiasts the chance to express themselves. It's always a delight to catch one of their concerts.

I'm in awe of the choices Lamine makes with his students and their performances--how he teaches and translates a traditional art form in a different cultural setting. As someone with constant questions about what's real, I used to be jealous of Lamine's sabar students--not because I yearned to play or dance sabar (although I've enjoyed learning a little from Lamine) but because I wanted a mentor to help me with cross-cultural translation. In particular, I wanted someone to mentor me in traditional  Korean cooking, which I've been learning on my own for five or six years. My wish was granted a few months ago; a friend who studied cooking in Korea offered to teach me. Her skill and talent in the kitchen inspire me unendingly.  

My mentor tells me the reasons behind every step of every Korean recipe. Such knowledge helps me follow directions--something I'm not too good at--and also helps me not follow directions. I believe we can bend rules more wisely (and safely) when we know not only what the rules are, but why they're in place. A little knowledge of why helps enormously in translating, following and improvising. The same can be said for sabar; what Lamine has taught me of the tradition helps me appreciate his choices as he brings it from one culture to another. The best mentors--I count mine among them--know that why is crucial to what and how.

Yet when I cook I sometimes take bloody-minded joy in venturing out on my own, anyway, trying to figure stuff out without knowing what's important or why. And so, guided only by online information, I decided to make a vegetarian version of kongbiji jjigae, ground soybean stew. I made vegetarian kimchee; made vegetarian stock; soaked soybeans and pureed them; sauteed garlic, kimchee and shiitake mushrooms for a few minutes before adding some of the stock I'd made. None of this was new to me. I don't own the stone pot this stew is traditionally cooked in, but I've made that cultural translation before, when cooking other Korean stews. The adventure began when I added in the pureed soybeans. They had the consistency of beaten egg whites, and floated over everything else, resembling a cross between a souffle and a volcano as the stew bubbled up through them.

I followed Maangchi's advice and did not stir the soybeans for a minute or two after I'd added them. Even after I stirred them, though, they floated, resisting all my attempts to incorporate them. Until, without warning, everything deflated. Really: the stew lost half its volume. I have yet to learn whether that's supposed to happen. But, good or bad translation--however authentic, or not, my version was--it was one of the most delicious things I've cooked in a long time. By far.

     
What I'd like to know is why one shouldn't stir the stew immediately after adding the pureed soybeans. I will ask my mentor. I did realize the why of something else, though, through the experiment: why I strike out on my own when I have someone to mentor me. I would have known this easily if I'd seen it in a student; sometimes it's harder to see things in ourselves.

Some students can start with no knowledge, receive information from an expert, and absorb that information. Some can't. I am one who has to learn, on my own, before I can be taught. Because, when studying with social anthropologists, I read about the importance of fieldwork and context for "real" learning experiences, I haven't been giving myself credit for the experiences I have on my own. I feel better about them now.

If we are trying to learn something--anything--one of the most important things to learn, first, is how we learn. Then we can be mentored, as suits us.