My long distance BFF and I are coping with the miles between us by cooking through the Love and Lemons cookbook (I bought her copy and she bought mine; I threw in Poisonwood Bible for her to get free shipping). Most recently on our menu? Creamy Miso Pasta with Brussels Sprouts. Despite the name, I assure you the picture looked appetizing.
Living in DC, I felt confident that I could find miso in any given grocery store. What’s more “big city” than a casual tub of miso? The night I planned on making this dish, I dutifully went to my local grocery store in the middle of a rain storm to pick up ingredients. While I wasn’t altogether surprised Safeway didn’t carry miso, I was a bit dismayed. Braving the now hurricane-like conditions outside, I carried on to the Harris Teeter a few blocks away. But again, no miso. Not one to back down from a challenge, I walked the mile to Trader Joe’s. Surely home of pickle popcorn and mochi rice nuggets will have miso. I was wrong. At this point, I’m standing in the aisle in a puddle of my own rainwater, rain jacket soaked through to my skin, begging the nearest employee to show me where they were hiding the miso. Defeated, I uber home and eat a fried egg on toast for dinner.
I am rejuvenated the next morning and can’t let the miso win, so I walk to the Harris Teeter near my office in Northern Virginia. This Harris Teeter is bigger than the tiny city Harris Teeter I tried yesterday. I felt good about my prospects as I walked there on my lunch break. Fourth time is not a charm. I head back to work with a fire raging inside me. I just knew there had to be miso somewhere in this godforsaken metropolitan and I would find it. Then it hit me–Whole Foods. Instead of chancing it and walking another mile in vain, I call ahead. I confirm that they do indeed have miso. I have a skip in my step as I head there after work. I make my way to the miso section, which also happens to be where the refrigerated tofu hotdogs are kept. I am feeling good.
The miso shelf is e m p t y.
I actually might cry at this point. As I feel a miso breakdown coming on, a sadness I didn’t think I would ever experience, I lock eyes with the worker behind the refrigerator glass. He’s stocking the shelves and I plead with him, “I was told there was miso, where is the miso?!” Silently, he hands me a fresh-out-of-the-box tub of miso and gives me a quick nod. He knew. He’s had a miso breakdown a time or two.
Turns out, the dish actually did not taste very good. A half-full tub of miso is currently going stale in the back of my fridge, but damn it, it’s mine.