Cooking Attempt #18: Miso soup (된장국)

I haven't written an entry in French for awhile, I know. Isn't it ironic that as soon as I finally learn how to use certain conjugations properly, I can't muster up the energy to do it in real life? Blame it on the French composition homework. That will drain anybody. I like writing, just not for school. Unless I can make up really wild stuff (like a kid named Gerald Purplefork who starts having shortness of breath because his cleaning lady got fired for stealing and his house is now full of dust bunnies, hiYAH!), that is.

Anyhoo, here's the miso soup recipe I've been procrastinating on. I have to put it up, so that I can show my mom that the anchovies and soybean paste she gave me have not been wasted.

This is a Korean recipe, which uses dried anchovies and a special kind of dried seaweed which is thicker than nori (the stuff used to make sushi) to make the broth. You can use anything for the broth. Beef broth, chicken broth, vegetable broth, whatever. You can also add whatever you want in the soup. I'm starting to think that Koreans aren't very particular at all about their recipes. Anyway, here's what I used.

Water - 8 cups
Dried anchovies - 10 (more if you're using teeny ones)
Dried seaweed - a piece maybe 5cmx5cm big
Tofu - 1 package (usually 250g)
Potato - 1, chopped
Onion - 1, chopped
Soybean paste - 3~4 tbsp

This is probably the simplest recipe for miso soup. You can add spinach, long strips of cabbage, seaweed (the still-wet kind), meat, fish, etc etc. I'm thinking of adding kimchi pieces in it next time, to give it an extra kick.

Where was I?

Oh yeah.

So I added the anchovies and seaweed when the water started boiling and let it boil for 15~20 minutes. Then I fished them out, using chopsticks. You CAN leave the anchovies in, but you don't eat them and they start to slowly disintegrate, which is a turn off. The seaweed must be taken out or the soup will smell fishy.

Then you add the onion and potatoes and keep boiling.

When the potatoes are almost done cooking, you add the soybean paste and tofu. My mom likes to get really firm tofu and cut it up before adding it in. I like using softer tofu and let it break up on its own while I'm stirring the soup around. Add the soybean paste slowly so that it dissolves into the soup. But if the water's boiling anyway, it should do that without a problem.

Koreans always have a bowl of rice as their main meal and soup is never eaten on its own. Add portions of rice into the soup, mix it thoroughly and eat! Nyum.



Tomorrow, I make chicken teriyaki with noodles, based on Josh's stir fry recipe!

생각해 보니까 불어로 써본지 오래됐네요. 요즘 불어숙제가 많아서 쓰려고 해도 머리가 아파서 못 하겠어요. 여름에 불어 실력도 좀 더 낳아지면 그때 다시 시작할께요.

된장국은 몇주 전에 만든 건데, 바빠서 오늘 생각난 거에요. 멸치와 다시마로 국물을 냈는데, 다른 걸로도 할 수 있죠? 쇠고기나 닭고기도. 제 친구는 vegan인데, 야채로도 국물을 낼 수 있다고 하네요.

제가 만든 조리법은 아주 간단해요.

물 - 8컵
멸치 - 10개
다시마 - 1조각
두부 - 250g
감자 - 1개
양파 - 1개
된장 - 3~4숫갈

다음에 만들 때는 시금치나 김치를 넣어볼까 해요. 미역도 있으면 좋겠는데 어디서 구해야 할지 모르겠네요.

물이 끓기 시작할 때, 멸치와 다시마를 넣었어요. 15~20분 후에 건져냈어요. 엄마가 다시마는 비린내 난다고 하시네요. 멸치는 그냥 둬도 괜찮은데, 먹을 때 불편하니까 꺼냈어요. 감자와 양파를 넣고 계속 팔팔 끓이다가 거의 다 익었다 싶을때 된장을 천천히 풀었어요. 엄마는 찌개용 두부를 좋아하시는데, 저는 좀 더 말랑말랑한 두부를 썼어요. (세일을 해서... ㅋㅋ)

이틀쯤 계속 먹은 거 같아요. 역시 한국요리처럼 시원한 건 없더라구요.

내일은 치킨 테리야키 국수를 만들어 봅니다!

"Is it...gonorrhea?"

The thing that excited me the most about going into the nursing program was the standardized patients. I'm not gonna lie. You know what a big Seinfeld geek I am and one of my favourite episodes is "The Burning" where Kramer and his friend, Mickey, are standardized patients acting out symptoms for med students to diagnose.
Of course, as a nurse, I can't diagnose anything, but the main thing was to do a physical assessment and get enough information to recommend further action, like a triage nurse.

Anyhoo, I got a tip-off before my turn that I would be doing a cardiovascular assessment. I felt ready. I had all my questions prepped and a mental schedule and everything.

The Plan
0:00 - Introduction of self; ask for client's name and age; questions about chief concern (PQRSTUIA)
0:04 - Past health history (surgeries, hospitalizations, injuries, allergies, meds); Social history; Health maintenance activities (sleep, diet, exercise, stress reduction)
0:06 - vital signs
0:09 - cardio assessment
0:15 - end of session

Now, to be quite honest, I thought that it would be sufficient to get far enough into the assessment by the end of the 15 minutes. After all, it was only practice and if you want to be a nurse who follows the McGill model of health, you want to be holistic, man! That means asking a whole ton of questions that, believe you me, my family doctor has NEVER asked me. I can only assume he has either a magic crystal ball or a private investigator at his disposal.

So there I was, being all professional and interested in what he had to say and good grief, how much he did have to say! It turns out that my standardized patient was actually a cardiologist on his day off who had made up an intricate and compelling background story to his character and was determined to say all of it, damn you and everything else.

It was like that episode of Frasier when they were trying to do the radio play.
Frasier: A gun! A gun is what he's got. When the lights came back
up, a smoking gun lay on the table. The maid lay dead,
unable to name her killer. Nigel Fairservice lay mortally
wounded.
Gil: I'm dying!
Frasier: Poor man was gone.
Gil: Never again to visit the scene of my boyhood in Surrey,
romping with my school chums in the fens and spinneys...
Frasier: Just then the lights went out again. [gun sound] Nigel
Fairservice was shot again.
Gil: Only grazed me. When the twilight bathed the hedgerows like
a lambent...
Frasier: [creates another shot] The final bullet, blew his head clean
off his shoulders. All right people, let's try to keep calm
although it's hard when the killer is among us.
Gil: [walks over and makes the door sound effect] Hi-ho, I'm
Nigel's brother Cedric, who I haven't seen since my boyhood...
Frasier: [creates yet another shot] And so died the last surviving
member of the Fairservice family.

[In Frasier's apartment, Martin and Daphne are still listening in
disbelief.]

Martin: Boy, I sure didn't see that one coming!
Gil: [radio:] Hello, I'm the ice cream man. Years ago I went to
school with Nigel Fairservice. We used to romp in the fens
and spinnies... [gun shot]

Not that I blame the cardiologist. I myself have a tendency to create intricate storylines for trivial roleplaying and lab reports (the journalist who went to Russia for 6 months and caught tuberculosis while dallying with a consumptive hooker, hello?). What if his secret passion was acting and the only way he could let it out was to volunteer himself for these sessions with student nurses and doctors lest he die of never being able to fulfill his dreams? Oh the tragedy!

See what I did there? It's like I can't stop.

I came out of this revery when the voice came over the PA system telling me that I had FIVE minutes left and the standardized patient had JUST finished answering all my questions. So I washed my hands, did the vital signs as quickly as I could and started palpating the precordium (5 landmarks of the chest used for the assessment). The final obstacle, which just made me want to laugh and cry at the same time, was that the man was too muscular. I couldn't feel the intercostal spaces! So I just imagined in my head where they would be and palpated the chest anyway. Like I could feel anything through at least 4cm of pectoral muscles, really.

It was awkward, feeling this man's chest without saying anything, so...

Judy: You're very muscular.
Client: Oh really? I've been reading the Men's Health magazine [indicates one sitting on the table next to him] and I look nothing like those guys.
Judy: Well, they probably spend 4 to 6 hours working out everyday.
Client: The women in it are extremely buff.
PA System: END OF SESSION. BEGIN DEBRIEFING.

The comments I got were that I was very methodical and thorough in my questioning, but that I needed to be more aware of the time. I was very good with taking the vital signs, but that if they were normal, I could reassure the client with the results instead of just moving onto the next procedure.

In brief, I listen a little too well, it seems, which makes me an awesome McGill nurse, but it's not very practical in the real world. Hmm. Do you know what I say to that? If you're going to teach me to be a holistic nurse, give me more than 15 minutes to do an assessment. 5 more minutes would have been a huge help, in my case. Anyway, I learned a lot from my first standardized patient encounter and definitely have some things to work on, but I'm getting more confident day by day.

Oh yeah, I should be getting my scrubs in a few weeks. They're not as ugly as I thought they would be, which is a comfort. I must get back to work on a family interview report that rivals Alexandre Dumas novels in their intricacy and drama!

And now for something completely different

She lounged at her desk, completely uninterested in the pile of papers that inevitably regenerated, hydra-like, from the station offices. Everything felt sluggish, from her aching knees to her head that refused to wake up from the morning stupor. For a moment, she was tempted to give in and make herself a small cup of Blue Mountain coffee with 3 round dollops of her personal stash of fresh vanilla bean gelato. She thought of the white frothy mixture slowly dissolving into the coffee in tight swirls, but had to steel herself. After all, she was on assignment in a few hours and couldn't risk the aftereffects of the caffeine. She threw herself out of her chair and did a few stretches in the middle of her office while waiting for the red light to blink on the telephone, silent but as blaring as an alarm.

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This is a typical start to a Bond-ish novel. It is at this point that the Bond-ish character starts reminiscing about previous assignments and the injuries he got and how he felt about the whole incidence.

He's a character that's very in tune with his body, I think. The way Fleming describes his physical condition, the taste of the food and drink and the sensations he gets from cigarettes is almost pornographic. Bond isn't a cultured man; it would be difficult to be one in the line of work that he does. The only respite he gets from the constant tension is his gluttony in the physical pleasures. I don't mean to say that he overindulges in anything, but the relish he gets from the precise measures of anything he consumes is evident in every page. (Side note: When James Bond describes the texture of eating Alaskan crabs drenched in melted butter with a loaf of crusty toast, I have this overwhelming urge to have some crab myself even though I don't like shellfish!) This is interesting, because when it comes to women, Fleming's writing becomes almost dainty in comparison. Bond does sleep with a lot of women and he is obviously a "breast man", but any description of the physical act itself is carefully behind closed doors. Somehow Bond changes from a cold and brutal man to an almost tender hero of romance novels. He sweeps her up in his arms and it's almost like the camera carefully pans away to the window; the curtains are drawn. It's a polite way of prodding the readers onto the next chapter. I find it a fascinating contrast.

Why am I writing this? Can't you tell from the first segment? I'm procrastinating from studying for my physiology midterm.

Ookie Cookie: Chapter 1 - Section D

Last time, we were introduced to Linda's friend, Judy Tatamumakil. We continue our story with Linda's day.

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It was another mind-numbingly dull day at the Idunnowat Museum of History, a tourist attraction renowned for its hideous exterior, inspired, as the architect liked to proclaim frequently to admirers, by a drooping snowman he had seen on a warm March day. Pretentious folk thought it – or claimed to, anyway – marvellously artistic and avant-garde, but the plain truth of it was that it was just as depressing and forlorn as a melting snowman tends to be. People often shook their heads as they walked by the off-white monstrosity; some even shook their fists, as though their gestures could somehow be transmitted to the critically acclaimed architect, who was at the moment rummaging through a recycling bin in search of more “inspiration”.

Inside, the Museum of History is infinitely easier on one’s eyes. The 20 foot-high ceiling above the entrance is painted in the softest shades of white, brilliant but subdued as a cumulus cloud floating in the summer sky. Spotlights were carefully aimed at precise angles to light up the thin gold lines that criss-crossed the ceiling. The result was a warm glow that mimicked natural daylight, diffusing like dust particles down to the main atrium below where the patrons milled around, pleasantly surprised at the contrast between the bulky exterior and the elegant interior. The walls were finely mosaicked to depict the various landmarks of Idunnowat: the North Forest of Richmondil, the Orange Mountain and the Southern Caves. Linda, quirky as she is, always liked to imagine that she was still outside, walking all over Idunnowat at superhuman speed.

On this day, however, Linda could not be so cheerful and whisked her tour group through the museum with a sullen face with death shooting out her eyes. Figuratively, that is. Needless to say, the comment cards she received that day were the worst in her whole career. Some samples:
"If a grasshopper curls its butt end while you're holding it, it means it's going to poop on you."
"If you give away your stuff, you'll give away your ass!"
"If you grew an extra pair of lungs on your shoulders, would you be able to breathe and sing at the same time?"
The board of directors of the Idunnowat Museum of History are now in their second year of debating on whether or not to clarify to the patrons that the comment cards should be about their experience at the museum.

After her morning tour was over, Linda wandered off to the west wing of the museum to visit her favourite exhibit: The Heroes of Idunnowat. The funny portraits usually cheered her up. For instance, there was a really famous painting of the legendary hero, Muskels, who had once subdued a marauding dragon using nothing but a super sized bottle of baby oil. (It was later discovered that the dragon had been suffering from scale rot, which tends to affect many a reptile in the dry winter months. Having been treated for its skin condition with the soothing effects of aloe vera baby oil, the dragon was tamed and became a pet in South Idunnowat. Even now, there is a giant house in the South Idunnowat town square with the name “Droopy the Dragon” painted over the door.) The painting depicted sunlight shining down on Muskels – triumphantly holding up an empty bottle – with a meek dragon at his feet with unusually shiny scales.

Linda passed by the portrait of Muskels without a glance. Instead, she headed straight for the golden statue of Snippy the Lobster, Saviour of Lotsawata Harbour, which was bathed in golden light from a lone lightbulb. A golden claw held up triumphantly (it is a well-known fact that all images of heroic deeds must portray said hero holding up an object triumphantly, be it a sword, a wand or a giant stapler, as in the case of Jules the Lucky Bastard), Snippy smiled beneficently down at Linda. After looking about to make sure that no one was around, Linda planted her feet firmly and held up her hand just like the heroes around her.

“Linda the Magnificent, who found the long lost Ookie Cookie of the legends!”, she whispered. Then she noticed the reflection of herself on the gold lobster tail of Snippy and felt…well, silly, and not in the best way. It is the sort of embarrassment one feels when caught doing something goofy that is by no means morally reprehensible (an example may be one’s mother opening the bedroom door unexpectedly when one is dancing and singing in one’s underwear). In this case, Linda had caught herself, and although it was less embarrassing than being locked outside in one’s pyjamas, she still blushed. What if someone had seen?

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Some notes:

The description of the Museum of History was written around the time I found out about the crystal renovation at the ROM. I wasn't exactly thrilled with the idea, as you can probably tell. I wrote the second paragrah this week, because I felt that the museum needed more description and wanted to protest the white drywall that Josh reported in his blog post about the new ROM. White drywall? You mean the kind that's in my room? How can a museum be so bland?

The sample comments are taken from old Crazy E-mails. The first comment is me describing something that happened in my biology lab at U of T. The second comment is a Silly Saying (an ongoing segment in the latter years at Westmount) from Mrs. Crawford. The third is a Silly Saying from Matt after jazz choir.

Muskels is "muscles" as pronounced by Jenn when she is being goofy. She doesn't do that anymore, I've noticed.

I was using aloe vera baby oil at the time to moisturize my skin during a shower. I was very obsessed with lotions and moisturizers. I still am, but don't show it as often as before.

I've never been caught dancing and singing in my underwear by my mother. It doesn't mean I don't do it, though.

Ookie Cookie: Chapter 1 - Section C

Last time, we learned about the supposed origins of the mythical Ookie Cookie.

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“I’m telling you, it’s taunting me!” complained Linda to her best friend over chocolate pancakes one morning.

“It’s a cookie, Linda,” said Judy Tatamumakil. Judy was as sensible as one could get in the Land of Idunnowat without being tossed onto a catapult by the Silliness Enforcers. This was probably due to the fact that she was an Enforcer herself, who regularly warned people showing signs of seriousness by shoving bananas up their noses. “What’s in this biscotti? It’s hard as a rock!” To emphasize her point, Judy banged the edge of the breakfast table with the unnaturally solid treat.

“Don’t change the subject,” said Linda, grabbing the mistreated munchie away from her friend. “I’m going to find it, Judes. I’m going to find the Ookie Cookie.” Linda’s eyes shone. Her lips trembled. Her hands formed into determined fists. Her toes wiggled inside her favourite fuzzy purple slippers.

Judy smiled invisibly. It is the sort of smile one gives when one is amused by the sincerity of another person’s nutty antics. This isn’t to say that Judy did not have some peculiar quirks of her own. After all, the Silliness Enforcement Agency demanded that all its employees have at least 23 unique obsessions, compulsions, tics and phobias. She waited silently, sipping her morning tea, for Linda to continue her train of thought uninterrupted.

Coming out of her reverie, Linda poked at her stack of pancakes with her fork and muttered, “It’s not just a cookie. It is…my destiny.” She gazed off into the distance with another brave look and trembling lips when Judy interrupted with, “We should get going, Linda. There’s an early meeting at the Agency and you don’t want to be late for the museum.” Judy stood up from the table, tying on her Enforcer sash – a lovely sky blue with tiny golden bananas embroidered along the edges – and finished her tea. Linda started, looked sadly into her cup of hot chocolate and sighed.

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Some notes:

Judy Tatamumakil is a name from a Tambou Koala sketch that I did with Brenda and Robert after a period of all-absorbing obsession with Monty Python's Flying Circus and lots and lots of juice. In it, I was Judy Tatamumakil, who had small boobs despite a last name that suggested otherwise (tatas the size of a mumakil) and Brenda was Brenda Wafflebottom, whose butt wasn't as hot as it was suggested. Robert was a pompous voiceover man who was deflating us of our ego.

I wanted Judy to be a sensible character in comparison to Linda's lunacy, which is a reversal of our actual personalities. Not that Linda is completely sane, of course. The real Linda, I mean. Jesus, this is getting complicated.

In Westmount, maybe 10th or 11th grade, I baked biscottis and brought them to school. When they were freshly baked, they were soft and delicious, but by the next day, they were completely inedible due to their hardness. I think it was Jennifer who actually banged them on the edge of the cafeteria table to show how hard they were.

I'll probably be mentioning feet and toes very often in this book. It's not that I have a foot fetish, but I think feet and hands should be a main component when considering one's beauty. Yeah, I'm weird like that.

I was once told by someone (was it Jennifer?) that I have an invisible smile. For years, I didn't know what that meant until I saw America's Next Top Model, in which Tyra Banks is forever screaming, "Smile with your eyes! YOUR EYES!" Thanks, Tyra!

I rather like the idea of the Enforcers, these secret police agent types, walking around with elaborate beauty pageant style sashes. I could be changing the details of the sash itself, but for now the sky blue with golden bananas is lovely.