The Kitchen Magician

Yesterday, I engaged in some noteworthy kitchen wizardry.  After a morning of physical therapy for an injury that cannot be seen with the naked eye, and negotiating the installation of granite countertops, ,which I was beginning to fear would also never be seen by the naked eye, I went on to higher pursuits.  I read another chapter of Smart Women Don’t Retire—They Break Free! and then topped it off by hitting the website thetransitionnetwork.com.  This cranked  me up so much,  I flung myself out of the house to do something I had dreamed of doing when I retired.

  I went at high noon on a weekday to the Hermosa Beach farmer’s market.  The motto “Think global, act local” was ringing gloriously in my ears. I virtuously steered  myself past the hot dogs and kettle corn to the organic items, and was glowing with eco-glory as I carried dinner-to-be  in my recyclable canvas bag.  There was only one flaw in my buy-local pursuit: I came home with Black Cod from New Zealand!

This transgression led, if not to long-range environmental disaster, to immediate culinary disaster. It was not due to the freshness of the fish or the quality of the miso sauce, hand made by “Dave”.  In fact my respect for the marinating properties of this sauce has skyrocketed.  

In plain fact, I fell on the knife of linguistic arrogance.  The Asian fish seller told me correctly how to prepare the cod.  When describing the process of marinating, he said, “Half an hour.  No more is good.”  This was the prophetic truth he spoke.  What I heard was, “Half an hour.  No, more is good.”  The  English major should have been more mindful of the placement of that comma. 

So, in the spirit of my new-found hours available for meal preparation, I decided to make this dish “more better”.  I knew the delights of a Miso Baked Black Cod, and wanted mine to be outstanding.  So, I began marinating it at 2:00 in the afternoon.  Mmm, that sauce was good stuff.

Well, imagine my surprise when I took that sucker out of the oven at dinner time.  The fish had flattened, and was oozing into a spreading pool of miso sauce.  Dissolving!  Vanished!  The damn fish was liquefied. 

I humbly offer advice.  Do not, I repeat, “DO, NOT” underestimate the power of miso sauce to take high-quality protein and break down those molecules beyond recognition.  That stuff will quite literally be your culinary undoing.