Page 4 of A Serving of Hope

“At home. My mother used to make it for me.”

Koishi jotted this down. “Ah. Can’t beat your own mom’s cooking.”

“She made me a bowl every morning, all the way up until the end of high school. Miso soup and rice.”

“That’s what, twelve years? Sounds like real devotion.”

“Even longer, I think. She started making it for me when I was still in nursery school, though I’m a little hazy on the details.”

“So she’d get up early, make the miso soup, then head out into the fields. And your father?”

Kenichi dropped his gaze. “He was quite frail, and couldn’t really help out much on the farm. He was in and out of the hospital all the time.”

“What a job your mom must have had. I don’t think I could manage…Now, what kind of miso soup are we talking about?”

“What…kind? Just regular miso soup.”

“But what sort of miso—red or white?”

“Well, it wasn’t red, but it wasn’t exactly white either. More of a yellowish color.”

“I forgot to ask. Where exactly did you grow up?”

“A place called Obuse, in Nagano.”

“Ah, Nagano. Probably Shinshu miso, then.”

“You think?”

“Well, the color would certainly match.” Koishi scribbled another note. “You said your family ran a farm. What did you grow?”

“A mix of things. Mostly apricots, apples, and chestnuts, from what I remember. My mother and the other local farmers would work from first thing in the morning until sundown.”

“You didn’t grow any vegetables, then?”

“Not to sell. But we cultivated plenty for our own use—onions, potatoes, cucumbers, tomatoes, cabbages, leeks, you name it. My mother had this little patch she’d tend between stretches in the fields. She still sends me onions and potatoes, so I guess it must be going strong.”

“It sounds wonderful,” said Koishi, her gaze drifting into space. “Harvesting whatever you like, whenever you like…I’d love to live that way.”

“I guess the grass is always greener,” Kenichi replied. “I used to hate the countryside. Dreamed of a life in the city. Then I actually tried it, and found out it wasn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

Koishi readied her pen once more. “So, what did your mother put in the soup?”

“It was different every day. Mainly vegetables, but never exactly the same combination.”

“She tried to keep things interesting, then. Must have taken some doing!”

“I remember the ingredients changing from day to day, but not what they actually were. I was always in a rush in the morning. Didn’t even finish the bowl most of the time.”

“Oh dear,” said Koishi in a gently chiding tone. “After she’d gotten up early to make it for you?”

“I know. I guess I just wanted a few more minutes in bed.”

Koishi pursed her lips. “So, a vegetable miso soup, possibly made with Shinshu miso. That’s all we’ve got to go on.”

“Sorry to be so vague,” said Kenichi, bowing his head.

“So,” Koishi said, eyeing him evenly, “you just want to taste your mother’s miso soup again, and you don’t mind which exact vegetables are in it?”