A jug boils in the background. A simple wooden lacquer-ware bowl awaits the miso and wakame. The little Japanese artisanal shop comes to mind, all darkened corners and warmth against the cold mountain air. Regret tinged that in my ignorance I didn’t also pick up the matching hats for the miso bowls. Almost a third of my life ago. Probably too long to hold that regret, best to morph it into a promise to return.

The swirling of the brown miso against the vibrant red interior. A pungent first stir. This bowl is the perfect size for my cheats miso soup – packaged and prepped for convenience. But this does not diminish the satisfaction. The dried wakame and tofu regaining shape, filling again with the fragrant soup. A metaphor for us all, sometimes we are bone dry, stripped by the headiness of life until we are shrivelled. Sometimes all it takes is some care and warm broth to reinvigorate our souls, filling us and allowing us to regain what was thought impossibly lost.

Salt and a delicate umami, with pops of tofu. So simple. So satisfying. The lightness of the bowl, insulating the hands from the steaming soup. And as you savour, millimetre by millimetre the rich red of the bowl is revealed. The bowl is essential to the soup.

Imbued in the bowl are my memories, but also the memories of its maker, the generations of artisans who have passed this skill from father to son. It is symbolic of the Japanese and their unique sensibility towards dark beauty, of nature and our place in it. And as the bowl sits empty on my writing desk, I am grateful for the warmth of its presence.

It is a reminder of the other me, the unfettered me. Who I am when I travel and feel the world at my feet and the experience the wonder of humanity. The poet, the philosopher.

I miss her.