Our family's dashi

When I wake up in the morning, the first thing I do is go for a walk with my father.

With my small feet, I patter along behind him to the temple at the foot of the mountain behind our house.

Looking down from the mountain path at the edge of the temple grounds, I could see our kitchen.

I could hear the rhythmic sound of my mother slicing green onions.

I wonder what's in the miso soup today.

This is a calm, distant memory from my childhood, bathed in the soft light of the morning.

Our breakfast at home was rarely bread; it was almost always rice and miso soup.

The dashi (stock) for that daily miso soup was made from iriko (dried sardines) and kombu (kelp).

When people think of dashi, many may immediately think of kombu and katsuobushi (dried bonito flakes).

However, in Karatsu, where I grew up, dashi made with iriko was more familiar than that made with katsuobushi.

Iriko are small fish, such as Japanese anchovies, that have been boiled and dried. They are generally known as "niboshi," though the term "iriko" is used in certain regions.

They come in various sizes, from small ones about 3 centimeters long to larger ones around 8 centimeters.

It is said that the smaller ones yield a delicate, elegant stock while the larger ones provide a bolder flavor, but in my family, we didn't pay much attention to the size.

We used the dashi made from iriko and kombu not only for our miso soup but also for everyday simmered dishes.

Sometimes, we would also make dashi from eso (lizardfish) iriko.

Eso is a fish used as an ingredient for kamaboko (fish cake), but it seems that young eso sometimes get mixed into the nets used for catching Japanese anchovies.

Because they have to be sorted out and dried individually, it takes extra work, so they aren't widely available.

However, this eso dashi has an elegant flavor that rivals katsuobushi.

My family's method for making dashi is quite simple.

Usually, one would put the iriko, kombu, and water into a pot and simmer them over low heat.

However, I don't use any heat for my first dashi.

I put the iriko and kombu into a bottle, pour in water, and let it sit in the refrigerator overnight.

By doing this, the umami from the iriko and kombu slowly dissolves into the water, and by the next morning, a delicate dashi has formed naturally.

In my mind, I call this "first dashi."

I use this first dashi for dishes that highlight the flavor of the ingredients, such as miso soup and dressed vegetables (aemono).

The iriko and kombu still have umami left in them after the first dashi is extracted.

That is why I don't just throw them away.

I put them back into a pot, add water, and simmer them gently over low heat.

After straining the stock, I add a little more fresh iriko and kombu.

After a while, a delicious, full-bodied dashi is ready.

I use this "second dashi" for simmered vegetables and takikomi gohan (mixed rice).

Japan is not the only place where dashi is made from fish.

Western cuisine also features fish stocks and soups.

Thinking of this, bouillabaisse, the fisherman's stew from Marseille, comes to mind.

A variety of fish, such as scorpionfish, are placed in a large pot and simmered with aromatics like celery and carrots.

The cooked fish is served with a red sauce called rouille.

Rouille is made with ingredients like garlic, egg yolk, and spices.

The fish soups I encountered in France and the dashi of Japan.

Where exactly does the difference lie?

One of the major differences I feel is in how the ingredients are treated.

The fish stock I found in France builds a complex flavor by combining numerous ingredients, such as fish and aromatic vegetables, and simmering them for a long time.

On the other hand, Japanese dashi consists of kombu, iriko—or katsuobushi—and water.

It draws out the umami of the ingredients from very simple materials.

Furthermore, rather than boiling it vigorously, it extracts only the necessary umami by carefully adjusting the temperature and timing to match the ingredients.

In Japanese cuisine, dashi is not intended to complete the dish on its own.

Dashi is, so to speak, the foundation for drawing out the flavors of other ingredients.

Ingredients differ in flavor and aroma depending on the season.

How do we express the season on a single plate while making the most of those inherent qualities?

I think that is what is most important in cooking.

If the dashi itself makes too strong a statement, the overall balance of the dish is lost, and the seasonal flavors, which we went to such trouble to obtain, become unrecognizable.

That is precisely why I add nothing unnecessary to dashi and use a subtractive approach as much as possible.

I believe the philosophy is fundamentally the same whether you use katsuobushi or iriko.

And there is one other indispensable element in dashi.

That is water.

For example, even if you use the same kombu or katsuobushi, the way the dashi turns out changes depending on the nature of the water.

While many regions in countries like France have hard water, Japan’s water is relatively soft.

I believe this water, too, is a vital presence for Japanese dashi, which draws its umami from things like kombu.

Rain falling on the mountains soaks into the soil, becomes spring water, and flows as rivers down to the sea.

And the bounty of those mountains and seas becomes a bowl of dashi on our dining table.

The morning miso soup I drank so casually as a child.

I believe that in that single bowl, there was not only the bounty of the sea, but also the mountain water and the wisdom of the people who have lived on this land.

In the bowl of miso soup we have every day, there is the bounty of the land of Karatsu.