But is it really just a cigar/musician/bowl of soup?

Why is it every cookbook author is also a storyteller? Those lovely blurbs at the beginning of recipes give us something. But what?

When I worked in restaurants, we had cookbooks of a sort: lists of ingredients by proportion, with suggested oven temperatures. There wasn't any information about where the recipe-author first tasted the food, or how it played a part in the author's childhood. We didn't spend any time on telling those kinds of stories. We didn't pinpoint the recipe's cultural origin, trace its history, or suggest ways to serve it.

We did spend time on naming the recipes. I remember a protracted discussion about what to call a soup I made from leftover mushrooms and zucchini. The head chef finally decided to list it on the menu as "Amanda's Summer Vegetable Soup," not because it was inspired by summery vegetables (it was inspired by the need to use up a too-large produce order), not because any of the customers knew who I was (or cared). Rather, he felt that title evoked something--again, I'm not sure what--that would speak to the customers--pique their interest or incite their imagination--and cause them to order the soup.

He had a point. If we'd called it "Uh-oh-these-mushrooms-are-about-to-go-bad-and-crap-we-have-a-lot-of-zucchini-this-week Soup," it might have held less appeal as a menu item. Would it have tasted the same? Of course: flavors are flavors. But there's more to eating, as an experience, than flavor. We could say it involves all our senses, not just taste and smell. I'd say there's even more to it. It involves storytelling.

That we tell ourselves stories all the time seems to me to be a given. Without thinking about it, we connect things with other things, try to situate something in relation to something else. Context helps us. But how much does context affect our experience? And in what ways? How much do we need to know about something in order to enjoy it or fully experience it?

Dave Soldier, co-creator of the Thai Elephant Orchestra, suggests playing the Elephant Orchestra's music to someone--anyone--without mentioning the identity of the musicians, and asking your listener if  what they're hearing is music. Almost everyone will say yes, it's music. Many will guess that they're hearing an East-Asian jazz or fusion band. Tell them it's elephants and all intellectual hell breaks loose.

I was witness to this experiment in a world music class. My co-instructor played a track from the Elephant Orchestra's first CD, without introducing or identifying the piece. She then asked the students what instruments (or types of instruments) they heard, and what they could deduce about the musicians and the performance setting. Nobody, of course, guessed that the musicians are elephants--a good example of how we make up stories, how we supply our own context when we aren't given any.

Just how much context we need is anybody's guess (and a question behind all expression.) For several years, I liked the Elephant Orchestra, but more for the idea of elephant musicians than for the actual music the elephants made. Then I watched this video--long but worthwhile--and heard Dave Soldier and Richard Lair tell the story behind the piece "War." Now that I understand more of that story, I really enjoy the piece, and I hear much more in it. Could I have enjoyed the music without the story? Theoretically, yes. But in fact I didn't.

On the vegetable side of these questions, how many people would relish bitter melon if they didn't understand that it's good for them? I am a strange case when it comes to this vegetable; I truly like its flavor and enjoy eating it. But who knows if I like the flavor because I believe that bitter melon is good for me. I don't remember when I first tried it, but perhaps this food came to me with an especially appealing story.

Miso Soup with Bitter Melon

I could tell you a little about this soup. and maybe relate it to elephants or to ideas about context, but I'd rather you tell me: write me a story (just a few sentences) about this soup. What would be a good way to introduce it? What would you like to know about it--or what can you tell me about its ingredients?

1 small onion

1 small bitter melon

about 3/4C diced winter squash or pumpkin

about 1T peanut or grape seed oil

3-4C water 

3-4t sweet white miso paste (start with about 1 generous teaspoon per cup of water)
 (Make sure you use white miso for this recipe; the flavor of red miso doesn't work nearly as well.)


Cut the onion in half and then slice each half into thin (1/8-inch or so "half moons." Cut the bitter melon in half lengthwise. Use a spoon to scrape out the pithy, seeded center of each melon half. Slice the melon crosswise into half moons of similar thickness to the onion. 

Heat oil and saute the onion over medium heat until it's softened. Keep the heat low enough to avoid browning the onion. When the onion has softened, the bitter melon and the squash (or pumpkin), and enough water to make it look like soup. Keep track of approximately how much water you add. Bring to a boil and cook over medium heat for about ten minutes, or until the melon and squash have softened but are not mushy. Turn off the heat.

In a small bowl, dissolve the miso paste in a few teaspoons of hot water. Add this to the soup, stir, and taste. Different misos vary greatly in saltiness and concentration of flavor, so add a conservative amount, then more, if needed. Serve immediately, with rice or a mix of rice and quinoa if, like me, you've been making a place for quinoa in your diet.

The storyteller in me can't resist adding that I used Indian bitter melon today. I prefer to use Taiwanese bitter melon for this soup, but it's very hard to find Taiwanese bitter melon around here in winter. I'd recommend using it for this recipe, though, if it's available to you.