Happy New Year! I hope you are well and enjoyed some form of relaxation with those you love! The holidays can be joyful but a bit of a whirlwind and are here and gone in the blink of an eye! Don’t get me wrong, I love every minute between Halloween and New Year’s, but this year was particularly busy and took a little bit of a toll on my health! I am just now starting to feel better after a rough bout of bronchitis, which I used to get all the time as a kid. Secondhand smoke is fo’ real, and my lungs are physically scarred from years and years of coughing from inhaling the toxic fog. Another reason Covid kinda scares me, ya know?
But this was also the first time I’d been sick in just over 6 years. And I can’t get sick! I have people who depend on me to cook, clean, transport, teach, write, exercise, volunteer, and well, the list goes on and on. And not to mention, cooking for me is a way of relaxing and being creative. So, what’s a girl to do if she can’t cook for nearly 3 weeks? Read, rest, and reflect—a lot. And when I got well enough to cook again, I returned to the kitchen with a significant mind shift. At the forefront was the question, “Am I really feeding myself if I’m not feeding myself well?” Deep, I know. But, alas, you are what you eat.
Listen, I am by no means a junk food vegan, but I not gonna lie. I love chips and cashew queso, like, a lot. And sometimes I get lazy. I also get caught up in convenience foods, Doordash, and sometimes, skipping meals entirely. I also give in to unhealthy cravings, and sometimes I do not feed my body well. This is a far cry from my early days as a plant-based eater–when I was all in. All. In. No oil, no processed anything, no wheat, no starchy stuff. I was a well-oiled machine, lost a bunch of weight, and felt ten years younger. I still feel 10 years younger, but the weight is slowly creeping back, and admittedly, I’m feeling a little rusty.
So the first several days back in the kitchen, I made only raw foods for 4 days. I was amazed at how light yet full and satisfied I felt. I started reading about the miraculous enzymatic functions found in whole foods and how cooking foods actually kill these beneficial enzymes that our food is trying to provide us. I’m not sure I will ever be 100% raw, but I’m definitely game for 50-75%, and who knows!
That said, I’m super excited to share this recipe with you. This oil-free soup is super healthy and completely delicious. It’s also 50% cooked and 50% raw. Part soup part salad (who says ya can’t), I added a Yukon gold to help thicken, some green peas to help brighten, and topped it with a raw zucchini salad that makes me want only to grow zucchini’s in my garden this summer! Pistachios give it a nice crunch and a little protein boost. The basil gives it depth, and the parmesan cheese, well, you know…! Let me know if you made it and how you liked it. I love hearing from y’all. Until next time!
In a medium-size bowl mix spiralized zucchini, lemon juice, garlic, basil, pistachios, parmesan, and pepper. I like to make this first and refrigerate.
Soup:
Warm a heavy-bottomed stockpot or dutch oven over medium heat. Sauté onion, garlic, ginger, and jalapeño in 1/4 cup of water or vegetable stock for 5-7 minutes, or until fork-tender. If vegetables begin to stick, add more liquid 1 tablespoon at a time.
Add the salt, 1/2 cup stock, diced zucchini, peas, potato, and curry powder. Sauté 2-3 minutes more.
Add 1 1/2 cups of broth. Cover and simmer until the zucchini and potato are tender, about 5-10 minutes.
Add ingredients to a blender and blend on low-medium speed until smooth. (Be careful–see note*)
Blend well and return soup to the pan; add remaining stock and simmer to warm through. Taste for seasoning.
Ladle soup into a bowl, and using tongs, carefully top center of soup with garnish. Be sure to get a little bit of everything!
Enjoy!
Notes
*When hot food is inside a blender, and a lid is placed on top, it heats the air above between the food and the blender lid, causing pressure to build up in the blender jar. This pressure can cause the top to blow right off as hot food explodes out the top of the blender jar. Trust me. It’s no fun to clean soup off everything, including the ceiling.
So I spent most of my winter break after Christmas in bed. I’m pretty sure from burning the candle at both ends and running in the rain, I wore myself down and ended up with a nasty case of bronchitis. My husband who somehow managed to avoid it insisted that I rest and took over as my personal chef and nurse. He made me this fantastic soup, and I figured it was well worth writing up a recipe! Sometimes the only thing (besides a Z-Pak) that makes you feel better is a lot of TLC and a good old-fashioned bowl of warm noodle soup.
The ultimate comfort food, this recipe uses tofu rubbed with poultry seasoning and baked until firm. It was so good and hit the spot. He drained and pressed the tofu and then pulled it apart by hand to give it that irregular shape like pulled chicken. He dredged it in a little bit of olive oil and tossed it in poultry seasoning. We use Trader Joe’s chicken-less seasoning, but alas, it’s discontinued. I liked TJ’s seasoning because it had turmeric, a great anti-inflammatory and antioxidant! But never fear. Here is another excellent poultry seasoning with turmeric that will also work! If you can’t find a seasoning mix with turmeric, be sure to add a teaspoon to your soup!
He baked the tofu for 25 minutes, turned it once, and baked for another 15 minutes. He also used egg-free ribbon noodles. But if you’re feeling somewhat nostalgic, you can use spaghetti broken into quarters for a more Campbell’s soup kinda feel.
2 tablespoons low-sodium soy sauce (I use Bragg’s Liquid Aminos)
8oz. pasta of choice, broken into bite-sized pieces if applicable
Salt,to taste
Instructions
Instructions
Preheat the oven to 350° F and line a baking sheet with parchment paper. Drain the tofu package, and press the tofu for about 20 minutes while the oven preheats. (We use a tofu press, but you can also wrap the tofu in a clean towel and stack something heavy like a cast iron pan on top of it).
Break the tofu apart into irregular shapes, or roughly chop it, add to a bowl.
Toss tofu in olive oil and sprinkle with poultry seasoning, coating generously.
Place the tofu pieces on the baking sheet. Bake for 20 minutes, flip the tofu and bake for another 15-25 minutes, or until firm and slightly crispy. Remove from the oven and set aside.
Warm a large saucepan over medium heat, then add 1/4 cup of vegetable stock.
Add the onion, celery, and carrot, and continue to cook, stirring occasionally. If the vegetables start to brown, turn the heat to medium-low and add additional stock one tablespoon at a time. Saute vegetables until the onions and celery are translucent, 5 to 7 minutes.
Add the garlic, dill, red pepper flakes, thyme, black pepper, and stir. Cook until fragrant, 60 to 90 seconds.
Add the broth and bring the mixture to a boil. Reduce to a simmer and stir in the soy sauce, pasta, and baked tofu chunks. Continue to cook for 10-12 minutes or until the pasta is tender.
Add additional salt and pepper if necessary.
Garnish with fresh thyme, dill, and parsley, if desired.
I have a potato obsession. But my favorite potato is the mighty sweet potato. Unlike a regular potato, a nightshade family member, the sweet potato is a large edible root within the morning glory family. And sweet potatoes come in many colors too!
While potatoes with orange flesh are the richest in beta-carotene. Sweet potatoes with purple flesh are richer in anthocyanins. Beta-carotene and anthocyanins are naturally occurring plant “Phyto” chemicals that give vegetables their bright colors. Phytochemicals are biologically active compounds found in plants and are known to:
Aid the function of the immune system.
Protect cells and DNA from damage that may lead to cancer.
Reduce inflammation.
Slow the growth rate of some cancer cells.
Help regulate hormones.
Why use a purple potato? Because anthocyanins have the capacity to lower blood pressure, improve visual acuity, reduce cancer cell proliferation, inhibit tumor formation, prevent diabetes, and lower the risk of CVD, which modulates cognitive and motor function.
This pretty warm winter soup was inspired by another anthocyanin…the açaí bowl!. It’s super healthy comes together very quickly. You can easily make this a “no-oil” soup by steaming your vegetables instead of roasting them.
If you choose to use oil, be sure to keep the temperature well below the oil’s smoke point or the point at which the oil starts to burn (that’s about 410 degrees for extra virgin or unrefined olive oil). Because overheating oil breaks down the nutritional composition of the oil changes the flavor, and releases harmful free radicals.
I added a delicious beet puree to this soup, but you can add whatever you want. Good choices might be pieces of roasted cauliflower, pumpkins seeds, hemp seeds, or soy cream.
Ingredients
Scale
3 large purple sweet potatoes, peeled and medium diced
1 large head of organic cauliflower, chopped into medium florets
2 large leeks, white part only, thinly sliced
2 cloves garlic, mined
2 tablespoon olive oil
1 teaspoon dried thyme
1 teaspoon dried tarragon
2 tablespoons fresh tarragon
1 (32 oz) container organic vegetable stock
salt and pepper to taste
Instructions
Preheat oven to 400°.
Add chopped potatoes and cauliflower to a mixing bowl and toss with 1 tablespoon of olive oil.
Add spices to a small bowl and mix well.
Spread vegetables evenly on a parchment-lined baking sheet.
Sprinkle the spice mix over vegetables. Place baking sheet in the oven, and roast vegetable for 30 minutes, turning vegetables at the half-way mark.
When vegetables are done, remove from oven and let cool.
Warm a dutch oven over medium heat. When the pan is heated, add oil. When oil begins to shimmer, add the leeks and saute until leeks have softened and are slightly brown.
Add garlic and sauté until fragrant, about 30 seconds to a minute.
Add cooled vegetables and vegetable stock to a dutch oven, and stir.
When the soup is warmed, use an immersion blender, or carefully ladle half of the soup mixture into a blender. (If using a high-speed blender, be careful to hold the lid, as the heat can build pressure and the lid can fly off). Continue until all the soup is blended to the consistency you prefer. **I blended the first batch until entirely smooth. For the second batch, I blended it to have some texture and then mixed the two.
Return to dutch oven and taste for seasoning.
Serve warm and top with fresh tarragon, roasted cauliflower, hemp seeds, pumpkins seeds (pepita’s), or beet puree.
Notes
**While blending the soup, I placed the first pureed batch into a large mixing bowl.
My friend Carla asked me for this recipe the other day. I had made this soup for a cooking class once, and she loved it! However, the recipe has taken a few twists and turns since the class. Each time I make it, I think to myself, “It’s close, but no cigar.” I finally realized what was missing when I added a small jalapeño to the mix of roasted veggies!
The soup is delicious, either hot or cold, and can be served as a winter warmer or cold as an early spring delight! Either way, you can’t go wrong. The other best part? It takes less than 30 minutes to make! You can leave the jalapeño if you like a little heat or remove it if you don’t. Here you go Carla!
1 cupcashew cream (can also use plant-based milk, just won’t be as creamy)
4 cups vegetable broth (DIY or store-bought)
1–2 Tbsp nutritional yeast (optional // for a slightly cheesy flavor)
1/2 medium lemon (optional // juiced // for brightness)
Instructions
Preheat oven to 400°.
Prepare a parchment-lined baking sheet.
In a medium bowl, add trimmed asparagus, quartered onion, garlic cloves, tarragon, and jalapeño. Toss with avocado oil.
Add all ingredients to the baking sheet. *See Note
Bake for 10 minutes, remove from oven, turn vegetables. Return to oven and bake for an additional 10 minutes.
When vegetables are done, reserve 8 asparagus tips. Then and add remaining ingredients to a blender with the peas and half of the vegetable stock. Be sure to hold the blender lid when blending as the heat and pressure can build, and the top will fly off. (It’s happened). When mixed well, add purée to a dutch oven over medium heat. Then add remaining stock, nutritional yeast, salt, pepper, and cashew cream. Simmer until warmed through. Finish soup with lemon juice. Taste for seasonings.
Serve with croutons and asparagus tips.
Notes
*I like to stack my tarragon and garlic pieces on top of the asparagus to keep them from having direct contact with pan. It helps to prevent them from burning.
The other day my friend Kathy asked for a Chile Verde recipe. The truth is, I’d never made it before. Strange, I know, considering Mexican food is my all time number one favorite food. After several hours of watching YouTube videos of mostly non-english speaking women, I set out to make this delectable dish.
Do you know the difference is between “chili” and”chile”? In American English, “chili” is the most common spelling for the spicy peppers and the stew. In British English the preferred spelling is “chilli.” In Spanish speaking countries and regions of the US, “chile” is the most common variant. Because I spent several hours watching YouTube videos of Spanish speaking ladies making this authentic and delectable dish, we are going to call it chile!
A traditional Chile Verde is made with pork shoulder and potatoes simmered in a spicy green chili sauce. Aside from the obvious, there were several traditional elements that I found muy importante in making this recipe. The first being the use of the molcajete, or the Mexican mortar and pestle. If you don’t have one, don’t worry. You can simply cut your ingredients into thin slices, then give them a good smashing with the underside of your favorite coffee mug (the heavier the mug, the better), or add the ingredients to a ziplock bag and use a rolling pin.
I slow simmered browned soy curls and potatoes in the green verde sauce, which is made from garlic, onion, cilantro, four kinds of peppers, and roasted tomatillo’s. Ahhhmaaazing! Here ya are, Miss Kathy!
Add tomatillos to a lined baking sheet and roast for 15-20 minutes, or until browned. Remove from oven to cool. When cooled slice in half.
White tomatillos are in the oven; add broth, whole peppers, 1/4 onion, and 1 1/2 cloves of garlic to a large saucepan and bring to a boil. Reduce heat, and simmer on medium for about 15 minutes.
Remove vegetables, and immediately add them to a prepared ice bath, making sure to cover them adequately.
Drain cooking stock into a large mixing bowl or another large vessel, BUT DO NOT DISCARD.
Once vegetables have cooled, and ice has melted, remove vegetables from the ice bath (do not discard that water either).
In a mortar, add boiled garlic and one additional clove of fresh garlic (not boiled) with 1/2 teaspoon salt. Using the pestle, grind garlic into a fine paste.
Seed all peppers and cut them into thin strips. Add to blender. Slice boiled onion and add to blender with cilantro. Add garlic paste and blend until smooth. (I needed to add just a bit of my stock water to thin out). If there is room, begin to add tomatillos, and blend. If not, blend tomatillos separately and then add to blended pepper mixture.
To make Curls:
Add the ice water used to cool the pepper mixture to a sauté pan and add soy curls. Boil until curls have softened, about 5-8 minutes. Do not overcook. Drain soy curls.
Heat a dutch oven over medium heat and add oil. When the oil is warmed, add julienned onion and soy curls (you may need to do this in batches). Cook until onions and curls have browned. About 5-7 minutes.
When browned, remove curl/onion mix from dutch oven and toss in 2 tablespoons of flour. (I wanted a gluten-free version, so I used brown rice flour). Set aside.
In the same pan, reduce heat to medium and add the sauce from the blender.
Add 3 cups of reserved cooking stock, oregano, garlic powder, salt and pepper, and diced potatoes.
Bring to a boil, then reduce heat. Cook until potatoes have softened, about 20 minutes.
Add soy curls, and cook until warmed through and chile has thickened. Taste for seasoning and serve.
Garnish with pickled red onion, fresh cilantro, and plain vegan yogurt.
Serve with very lightly fried corn tortillas. Enjoy!
This soup is not mine. I wish it were because it might be the best thing I’ve ever eaten. I had always loved French Onion soup. So it was no surprise when my friend took me to a French restaurant in Soho called Balthazar that I ordered their Onion Soup Gratinée. These were my pre-vegan days, of course, and for weeks afterward, I only dreamt of this soup. It was so unbelievably satisfying that I finally reached out to my friend Kate and asked her to get me the Balthazar cookbook. The day I got the book in the mail, I went to the store, bought a 3-pound bag of onions, and went to work.
Now that I’m vegan, there were only a few small modifications to make. I am thrilled to say the flavor has not been altered at all. The trick is to make sure that the onions are deeply caramelized. Cooking the onions may take longer than expected, about 40 minutes. Be sure to keep the heat at medium and stir frequently. You do not want the onions to burn. The other key to this soup is the cheese. I used Miyoko’s Mozzarella cheese and grated it over the toasted sourdough bread.
A quote from the Balthazar’s cookbook…”Borrow a custom from Bordeaux and spill a little red wine into the bottom of your nearly empty soup bowl. The tradition, down known as chabrot, dictates a quick swirl of wine into the tail-end of the hot broth and then a hearty gulp right from the bowl.”
Ingredients
Scale
1/4 cup plus 1 tablespoon olive oil
4 medium yellow onions, peeled, halved through the stem end, and sliced 1/4 inch thick
1 tablespoon unsalted vegan butter
1 garlic clove, peeled and thinly sliced
4 sprigs of thyme
1 bay leaf
1 tablespoon salt
1/4 teaspoon freshly ground white pepper
3/4 cup dry white wine
2 quarts vegetable stock
1/2 cup port
6 slices of sourdough bread, about 1 inch thick, toasted
In a 5-quart Dutch oven or other large, heavy pot, heat the olive oil over a medium flame. Add the onions and, stirring frequently to prevent burning, sauté until they reach a golden color, approximately 30 minutes.
Add the butter, garlic, thyme, bay leaf, salt, and pepper and cook for 10 minutes. Raise the heat to high, add the white wine, bring to a boil, and reduce the wine by half, about 3 to 5 minutes.
Add the vegetable stock and simmer for 45 minutes. Preheat the broiler. Remove the thyme springs and bay leaf, and swirl the port into the finished soup.
Ladle the soup into the 6 ovenproof bowls.
Fit the toasted bread into the bowls on top of the liquid, and sprinkle 1/3 cup of Mozzarella onto each slice. Place under the broiler for 3 minutes, or until the cheese melts to a crispy golden brown. Allow the soup to cool slightly, about 3 minutes, before serving.
Over Thanksgiving, I watched Memoirs of a Geisha—a film my girls hadn’t seen, one my mom recommended, and one I hadn’t revisited since it first came out in 2005. You never quite know how one thing leads to another.
That small moment opened the door. Watching the film again, I found myself paying attention differently, not casually but attentively. It’s a movie that doesn’t ask you to watch so much as to observe. It trains the eye. Silk, choreography, ritual, discipline. Years of repetition hidden behind moments that look effortless. Identity shaped not by declaration, but by endurance. Beauty that costs something.
What stayed with me this time was the symbolism woven through Japanese culture itself, and how so many Japanese films speak in metaphor. They invite you inward rather than spelling things out, asking you to sit with what you’re seeing long enough for meaning to surface.
That sensibility feels deeply rooted in Buddhist thought—reflection over reaction, impermanence over possession, attention as a form of devotion. Gesture carries weight.
Silence teaches. Seasons mirror inner change. Mastery is earned through repetition, humility, and submission to form before expression is ever allowed. In this world, nothing is accidental: color, posture, timing, even stillness carries intention. Becoming is not about being seen, but about being shaped.
Anchoring the film—steady, watchful, restrained—is Ken Watanabe. He carries lineage in his body. Authority without spectacle. Recognition without excess. Watching him again, I realized how deeply that presence had stayed with me—not just as a character, but as a way of being. The kind of quiet mastery that doesn’t announce itself, but is immediately felt.
And as attention tends to do when it’s allowed to wander, it didn’t stop there. After the movie ended, I looked up the cast to see what else they’d done as I had immediately recognized Michelle Yeoh from Wicked. That small moment of recognition opened the door. Almost inevitably, it led me to Tampopo.
Rabbit Holes
At first glance, the two films couldn’t seem more different. One is silk and ceremony. The other is broth and steam. One is restrained, formal, deliberate. The other is playful, chaotic, absurd. But beneath the surface, they are speaking the same language.
Both understand that mastery is not chosen — it is survived into. That identity doesn’t arrive through affirmation or confidence, but through repetition, humility, attention, and care.
Tampopo doesn’t explain itself. It invites pursuit. And it rewards attention. In Tampopo, Ken Watanabe plays Gorō — the quiet, stoic truck driver who becomes Tampopo’s primary protector and anchor.
What struck me immediately — and what feels distinctly Japanese in its storytelling — is how punctuated the film is. It moves in deliberate beats rather than smooth arcs. Scenes arrive, land, and end cleanly — sometimes abruptly — like brushstrokes lifted from the page. There is space between moments. Silence after humor. Stillness after intensity. Nothing is rushed to resolution.
This punctuation isn’t accidental; it’s cultural. Japanese storytelling often trusts the pause as much as the action, the cut as much as the continuity. Meaning is allowed to crystallize in the gaps.
Each vignette stands on its own, yet accumulates power through repetition and contrast. You aren’t carried along passively — you’re invited to stop, to notice, to integrate. The film doesn’t spoon-feed emotion; it places it carefully and steps back. That rhythm mirrors everything else the film is teaching: attention over excess, intention over momentum, presence over performance.
Why Ramen Matters
To understand why that opening scene in Tampopo feels almost ceremonial, you have to understand what ramen represents in Japanese culture — because ramen is not just food. It is craft, labor, humility, and relationship, all contained in a single bowl.
Ramen is everyday food, but it is never casual. It lives at the intersection of accessibility and mastery. Anyone can eat it. Not everyone can make it well.
And making it well is not about luxury ingredients — it is about attention. Broth developed over hours. Noodles chosen for texture and bite. Toppings prepared separately and assembled deliberately. Balance matters more than excess. Harmony matters more than spectacle.
In Japan, ramen is also deeply democratic. Salarymen eat it after long days. Students eat it late at night. Chefs devote their lives to perfecting it, often specializing in a single style, a single broth, a single expression.
Entire reputations rest on how well one bowl is made — and whether it is made the same way, every day, without shortcuts. Ramen asks the cook to show up fully, repeatedly, and without ego.
That’s why there is reverence.
Not because ramen is rare, but because it demands integrity.
So when the old man in the opening scene teaches the younger man how to eat ramen — to look at it first, to inhale the aroma, to apologize to the pork, to sip the broth before attacking the noodles — he is not being precious or theatrical.
He is initiating him into a relationship. He is saying: this bowl represents someone’s labor, someone’s attention, someone’s life energy. To rush it is to miss it. To consume without awareness is to flatten it.
When he says “see you again,” to the pork, it lands on multiple levels. On the surface, it sounds playful. Underneath, it reflects a Buddhist understanding of continuity — that nothing truly ends, that effort carries forward, that nourishment circulates. The pig will return. Hunger will return. Attention will be required again.
The younger man laughs because he doesn’t yet understand that ramen, in this context, is a teacher.
This is why the rest of the film unfolds the way it does. Why people are judged not by what they eat, but by how. Why mastery is shown through repetition rather than brilliance. Why the garnish matters. Why finishing every last drop becomes a quiet form of respect. Why the bowl is emptied completely, not out of greed, but gratitude.
Ramen in Tampopo is not elevated into fine dining — it is honored as daily devotion. And that distinction matters. Because it mirrors the film’s deeper message: enlightenment doesn’t live only in temples or rituals. It lives in kitchens. In work done well. In care repeated without applause.
That’s what the old man knows at the beginning — and what everyone else slowly learns.
And that is precisely the point. They are eating ramen; he is practicing reverence. What they miss is the Buddhist truth threaded through the gesture: nothing ends, nothing is taken without consequence, nothing truly disappears.
The pork becomes nourishment, energy, warmth, movement—it returns in another form. The apology is not superstition; it is enlightenment. The men who laugh at him aren’t cruel — they’re simply unawake. They are eating. He is communing.
That distinction becomes one of the film’s central teachings.
What the old man actually teaches
1. Attention is the first act of respect He tells him to look at the bowl, admire it, inhale the aroma, acknowledge each element before touching it. This is a lesson in presence. If you rush past what nourishes you, you rush past life itself.
2. Gratitude must precede pleasure The apology to the pork, the reverence for the broth — these come before eating. In Buddhist thought, desire without awareness is suffering. Pleasure rooted in gratitude becomes communion.
3. Mastery is humility, not dominance The younger men treat food as something to conquer, consume, rate. The old man treats it as something to meet.
That difference is the difference between knowledge and wisdom.
Why the other men don’t get it
They laugh because they are still operating from:
efficiency
convenience
ego
entitlement
They think food exists for them.
The old man understands that he exists because of it.
That’s enlightenment — not robes or sermons, but the quiet knowing that:
life feeds life, and nothing should be taken unconsciously.
The deeper, unspoken lesson
The ramen becomes a koan.
If you can’t slow down for a bowl of noodles, you will miss love, grief, beauty, death, and devotion too.
The old man already knows this. The others are still hungry and don’t know why.
He was not teaching them how to eat ramen; he was teaching them how to stay awake while being fed.
Endurance as a Form of Love
The actress is Nobuko Miyamoto, and her adorableness isn’t accidental. In Tampopo, she’s not playing a fantasy of a chef — she’s playing a becoming. Curious, awkward, determined, exhausted, joyful. That sweetness is earned, not cute. It’s humility in motion.
And that montage — the insistence that good food requires endurance — is one of the most honest depictions of kitchen life ever put on film.
Because the movie tells the truth chefs know in their bones:
You need physical strength
You need stamina
You need repetition until the body knows before the mind does
You need muscle memory, not inspiration
Cooking is not just art. It’s labor. It’s training. It’s load-bearing devotion.
When I thought back to lifting fifty-pound boxes over my head at Gateway, it stopped feeling like a passing detail and suddenly became the point. Tampopo does not romanticize the work away — it honors it. It says plainly: this body must be capable of carrying what the heart wants to offer. Nourishment is not abstract.
Care is not theoretical. Devotion has weight. Arms must be strong enough. Stamina must be earned.
The fifty-pound boxes aren’t symbolic. They were heavy boxes of produce and meat in the refrigerator. They were real weight with consequences if mishandled. And it wasn’t only boxes — it was pulling heavy baking sheets out of hot ovens, wrists steady, stance grounded, timing exact.
Or moving large, heavy stock pots back and forth, again and again. Full. Sloshing. Hot. Awkward to carry.
That work wasn’t symbolic at the time — it was practical, necessary, relentless. But in hindsight, I see exactly what it was doing. It was creating strength. Not metaphorical strength. Actual strength. Balance. Endurance.
That work wasn’t subtle. It was strength being built in real time — in forearms and shoulders, in balance and endurance, in the kind of steadiness that keeps food safe and people fed. Tampopo honors this without flinching. It says plainly: devotion requires capacity.
You don’t get to offer nourishment unless your body can hold it. And so the work trains you — rep by rep, service by service — until strength stops being something you think about and becomes something you are.
That’s why I loved the film so deeply. Because I live that truth.
I know now that transcendence doesn’t float — it’s built. Rep by rep. Box by box. Service by service. The enlightenment in Tampopo is not something that descends from above; it rises from the ground up. It is earned through sore wrists, burned forearms, repetition, humility, and care. Through showing up again the next day and doing the work a little better than before. The body learns first. The mind follows later.
The kind that lives in the forearms, the shoulders, the core — the kind that lets you stay steady while holding something that could spill if you lose focus for even a second. Tampopo understands this kind of labor intimately.
It shows that devotion is not just intention, but capacity. You don’t get to offer nourishment unless your body can hold it. And so the work trains you — quietly, repetitively — until strength becomes part of who you are, not something you think about anymore.
Together, these moments make the film’s argument unmistakable: awakening is not delicate. It is muscular. It asks something of the body. And only when the body is willing to carry the weight does the offering become true.
The Feminine Is Not Delicate
That same lesson arrives through humor in the spaghetti scene. Tampopo carefully teaches a group of women how to eat properly — quietly, neatly, contained. Polite. The instruction is precise, disciplined, almost rigid. It mirrors the way women are so often taught to move through the world: controlled, careful, composed. Then a loud American man slurps his pasta with unapologetic pleasure, and the room shifts.
Suddenly, the women abandon restraint and eat like him — noisy, embodied, present. The scene isn’t really about manners. It’s about liberation through the body. About how rules without embodiment become hollow. About how pleasure, like mastery, has to be lived physically to be real. When the women follow him, it’s not regression — it’s reclamation. Civilization teaches control, especially to women. The body remembers something older. Desire wakes up when it is witnessed without shame.
For me, this lands directly in the kitchen. Being a woman chef does not mean being precious. It means being capable. Strong enough to lift. Steady enough to hold. Present enough to stay. The feminine here is not soft or ornamental — it is grounded, enduring, embodied. It does not ask permission. It carries the weight and makes the offering anyway.
The kitchen teaches this first. Before pleasure, before intimacy, the body learns presence through work — through weight, heat, repetition. And when that lesson moves elsewhere, it doesn’t change its nature.
Eroticism in Tampopo follows the same logic
The couple using whipped cream and salt on the body isn’t meant to arouse in a conventional sense. It’s about taste crossing into intimacy. Salt heightens flavor. Cream softens and carries it. Together, they mirror the same principles that govern the bowl of ramen: contrast, balance, attention, restraint.
The body becomes a landscape for tasting rather than consuming, and pleasure becomes something slow, deliberate, and sensory, not rushed or devoured. What’s important is not what they’re doing, but how they’re doing it — with focus, with curiosity, with presence. This mirrors the way the film insists food should be approached: not grabbed, not conquered, but explored.
Placed alongside scenes of slurping noodles, apologizing to pork, or finishing every last drop of broth, the moment reinforces the film’s deeper argument — that appetite is not something to suppress or indulge blindly, but something to meet consciously.
Desire, whether for food or for another person, becomes sacred when it is attended to. The scene also quietly dissolves the boundary between nourishment and intimacy: both require trust, timing, vulnerability, and care. When attention is present, even something as simple as salt on skin becomes a form of communion.
In this way, the scene isn’t an outlier — it’s a continuation. Tampopo keeps returning to the same truth from different angles: when we slow down, when we notice, when we allow sensation to be guided by awareness rather than impulse, ordinary acts become profound. Eating. Touching. Loving. All of it follows the same rules.
The lovers passing a raw egg yolk from mouth to mouth create heat not through exposure, but through attention — breath held, timing precise, trust absolute. Sensuality here is not spectacle. It is presence. Appetite, whether for food or for another person, becomes sacred when it is met fully.
But Tampopo never romanticizes appetite blindly.
Age Is Not the Same as Wisdom
The old woman squeezing peaches in the market is one of the most unsettling moments in the film. She presses fruit until it bruises, touching food without intention to nourish, prepare, or share. The shop owner slaps her hand away — not gently, not ceremonially, but firmly — a boundary enforced by someone who understands that touch carries responsibility.
Later, the refined older man who first appears wise and patient is revealed as a trickster — impersonating someone else, stealing money, still trying to grab one last bite before arrest. In Tampopo, the film dismantles the comforting idea that wisdom equals virtue. Slowness is not morality. Elegance is not purity. Even insight has appetite. Enlightenment does not erase desire — it makes us aware of it. Even wisdom leaves fingerprints.
What’s striking is that both of them are old. Age alone does not confer wisdom. What we’re watching is appetite without relationship. Sensation without care. The shadow of everything else the film reveres. Touch, when divorced from responsibility, curdles. And when the woman is seen — truly seen — she runs. Unconscious desire cannot survive awareness.
For the woman squeezing the peaches Her lesson is about touch without care. She reaches for sensation with no intention to nourish, prepare, or share. Food, in this moment, is not relationship — it’s extraction. The shop owner’s slap isn’t cruelty; it’s correction. It says: if you touch, you are responsible for what you alter. Her flight when she is seen shows that unconscious desire cannot withstand awareness. The lesson isn’t “don’t desire” — it’s that desire must be witnessed, bounded, and accountable. Appetite without relationship collapses.
For the refined older man His lesson is about appearance without integrity. He moves slowly, speaks gently, wears the costume of wisdom. But refinement is not virtue, and patience is not proof of ethics. His final grasping — still wanting one more taste even as he’s exposed — reveals that appetite doesn’t disappear with age or insight. The lesson here isn’t condemnation; it’s clarity. Enlightenment doesn’t erase desire. It makes us responsible for it. Wisdom, if it’s real, shows up in restraint, not aesthetics.
Taken together The film refuses the fantasy that time civilizes desire on its own. Age doesn’t redeem appetite — practice does. Care does. Presence does. Whether in a market, a kitchen, or a life, the moral line isn’t how old you are or how refined you appear, but whether your desire can stand being seen — and whether you’re willing to carry the consequences of your touch.
Mastery Is a Communal Act
What holds the film together — what makes it feel alive — is community. Tampopo does not become herself alone.
Gorō isn’t a teacher in the formal sense. He doesn’t lecture or dominate. His role is steadier than that. He offers presence, safety, and discernment. He recognizes potential before it’s proven. While others bring technique, critique, or lineage, Gorō brings containment — the masculine principle of holding the space so becoming can happen.
He watches more than he speaks. He intervenes when necessary. He stands nearby while Tampopo learns, fails, practices, and grows. In many ways, he functions as the spine of the community that gathers around her: not the loudest force, but the stabilizing one.
The sensei. The truckers. The contractor from the bar fight. Each person arrives with a different gift: discipline, protection, feedback, lineage. Nourishment creates kinship. Learning is communal. Mastery is shared.
When the five men who helped her finally sit down to eat her ramen, the film reaches its quiet crescendo. Each man eats differently.
One slurps — instinctive, embodied, unapologetic.
One sips — careful, measured, attentive to nuance.
One pauses — reflective, letting the bowl speak before responding.
One studies — technical, evaluative, trained to notice balance and structure.
One devours — grateful, wholehearted, deeply hungry. None of them eat the same way, and none of them are wrong. What unites them is attention.
This, to me, is the clearest articulation of what we do with food. Nourishment is not received uniformly. A cook does not feed one kind of eater. We offer something shaped by discipline, repetition, and care, and then we release it.
We don’t control how it is met. We don’t demand a single response. We watch.
Tampopo stands behind the counter with nervous hands, holding herself back, witnessing.
Because the truth of the offering isn’t in praise or critique — it’s in the bowls.
One by one, every bowl is emptied. Different paths, same arrival. That’s how she knows. That’s how we know.
The film has trained us by now to notice how people eat. The music builds. Awareness builds. One by one, every bowl is emptied. Every last drop of broth gone. Faces soften. Satisfaction lands. Fulfillment arrives without a word.
She knows. We know. She did it.
And then the film refuses to let fulfillment turn into fantasy.
The boar story is not about food — it’s about desire meeting mortality
The moral of the boar story in Tampopo is this:
Desire must be met while the body is able — because awareness alone is not enough.
Here’s what the film is teaching through that story.
The wild boar represents future appetite: a meal not yet cooked, a pleasure not yet shared, a life moment deferred. Hunting the boar isn’t about violence or conquest; it’s about readiness. The boar is something you must be strong enough to face, present enough to pursue, and alive enough to receive. It exists in the realm of “someday.”
When the man tells the boar story as he is dying, he is naming what will never happen — not with regret, but with clarity. He knows exactly how the meat would taste. He knows how it should be eaten. He knows who he wanted to share it with. But knowledge arrives after capacity is gone.
That’s the moral.
Tampopo keeps making this distinction throughout the film:
knowing how to eat is not the same as eating
imagining flavor is not the same as tasting
understanding reverence is not the same as being able to receive it
The boar story says: do not postpone your devotion. Do not wait until the moment passes to become attentive. Do not confuse intention with action. Appetite is not shameful, but it is time-bound.
Placed where it is — after mastery, after triumph — the story delivers the film’s most unsentimental truth:
fulfillment does not protect you from impermanence
love does not guarantee more time
skill does not buy you an extension
But attention still matters.
The man dies having been seen. His desire is witnessed. His story is heard. And that is the film’s final act of compassion: even when the meal can no longer be eaten, meaning can still be honored.
So the boar story is not a warning against desire.
It’s a reminder to meet life while you can — with your body, not just your understanding.
This is the film’s sharpest distinction between nourishment and consumption. Nourishment requires presence. He has awareness, taste, memory — but his body is leaving. Desire remains after capacity is gone.
Why he tells a story instead of eating
Storytelling becomes his final act of appetite.
When the body can no longer eat, the mind reaches for meaning. He isn’t asking her to cook. He isn’t fantasizing erotically. He’s placing his longing into language — into narrative — because that’s all that’s left.
This mirrors what Tampopo has been teaching all along:
eating is presence
cooking is devotion
storytelling is remembrance
At the moment of death, nourishment shifts forms.
“After triumph comes loss” — and the film refuses to comfort us
This scene comes after the successful bowl. After mastery. After recognition.
That placement matters.
Tampopo is saying something very unsentimental:
fulfillment does not protect you
mastery does not exempt you
love does not delay death
And yet — attention still matters.
She kneels with him. She listens. She stays.
When she begs him to hold on and promises they’ll go hunt wild boar together, she’s doing what humans always do at the edge of loss: projecting continuity. He already knows the truth. That’s why he’s calm. He isn’t clinging. He’s savoring the idea of what could have been.
The tragedy isn’t that he dies.
The tragedy is that he knows exactly how he would have eaten that meal — and never will.
Why the film doesn’t soften this moment
Because Tampopo isn’t a fantasy about food.
It’s a meditation on impermanence.
The scene tells us:
appetite survives longer than the body
imagination outlives capacity
meaning is not erased by death, but it is cut short
And still — the act of attention dignifies the moment.
He doesn’t die alone. He is witnessed. His desire is named.
That’s the film’s quiet mercy.
Why this scene matters so much in the context of the whole film
Every other scene teaches us how to eat while we can. This scene shows us what happens when we cannot.
It’s the shadow side of reverence.
If the opening scene says:
“Look at the bowl. Inhale. Apologize to the pork.”
This scene says:
“One day, you will only remember how it tasted.”
And that’s why it hurts.
Because it’s true.
And the film ends where life begins — with a baby nursing at its mother’s breast. The most innocent form of nourishment. What begins as instinct becomes ritual, mastery, culture — and then returns to innocence again, consciously. The circle closes.
Tampopo centers on a woman who is becoming
Tampopo is a widowed single mother running a struggling ramen shop. She is earnest, overwhelmed, and aware of her own inadequacy — not ashamed of it, but clear-eyed about how far she has to go. She doesn’t want comfort or shortcuts. She wants mastery. When she meets Gorō, a stoic truck driver with a discerning palate (played by Ken Watanabe), she does something radical in its simplicity: she asks for help. She offers to pay him to teach her how to make truly great ramen.
What follows is not a montage of instant success, but an apprenticeship. Gorō becomes her anchor and protector, but the work of learning expands into community. A self-styled ramen sensei teaches discipline and tradition. Truckers offer feedback. A contractor from a bar fight provides strength and loyalty. Each man contributes something different — technique, critique, labor, lineage — and none of them replace her effort. Tampopo trains her body, her palate, her stamina. She fails publicly. She practices relentlessly. She learns that ramen is not just flavor, but structure, timing, heat, and care.
The story is not about transformation through talent, romance, or luck. It’s about endurance. Tampopo does not become herself alone, and she does not become herself accidentally. She becomes through repetition, humility, and willingness to be seen while learning. By the time her ramen is ready to be judged, the victory is quiet and unmistakable: the bowls are emptied. The work holds. She has become what she set out to be — not because she dreamed it, but because she trained for it.
As I sat with it, the film unfolded like a quiet mirror, reflecting my life since this time last year — shaped by labor, repetition, loss, and the slow arrival of clarity.
This movie feels like one of those moments where life leans in and says, Here. See this. This is for you.
The boar story began to feel uncomfortably familiar — not because of the loss itself, but because of what it revealed about timing. About how easy it is to understand something only after the body has already lived it. I recognize that pattern in my own life: moments where love, connection, or possibility existed fully in the present, but only became clear once they had already passed through me. Not as regret. As learning.
What I see now is that the lesson was never about holding on. It was about showing up. Being present while the moment was still alive. Saying yes to the experience without demanding permanence from it. Letting something matter without needing to keep it. The boar isn’t meant to be possessed. It’s meant to be met — while you still have the strength, the breath, the capacity.
There are relationships in my life that taught me this — not through resolution, but through contrast. Through what stayed embodied and what remained imagined. Through learning the difference between desire felt in the body and desire postponed into story. What I understand now is that some connections arrive not to be completed, but to teach you how to be present — and then ask you to let go once the lesson has landed.
That this realization arrived on the Winter Solstice, as the sun moved into Capricorn, feels less like coincidence and more like alignment. The longest night of the year. The pause point. The inhale before the light begins its slow return. Capricorn understands this timing. It rules endurance, structure, lineage — mastery earned through repetition. It doesn’t promise ease. It promises continuation.
Now we begin to turn back toward the light.
Not all at once. Not dramatically. Minute by minute. Day by day.
Longer days, even if only by a breath at first.
That’s how real change happens. That’s how chefs are made. That’s how identity settles.
The work has been done. The bowl is whole.
Watching Tampopo sent me back to my original ramen recipe from 2019 with new eyes — not to reinvent it, but to finally give it the attention and reverence it deserved. What I thought was finished back then was really just the beginning.
A delicious bowl of ramen is the ultimate comfort food. And the best part is that you can make ramen an infinite number of ways! This recipe happens to be my favorite, but you can use whatever ingredients you love or happen to have on hand. Some additional toppings might include:
1 Fresno chile pepper, seeded and thinly sliced lengthwise
12 ounces somen, udon or ramen noodles
Instructions
Make the Broth:
In a dutch oven over medium-high heat, saute the onion in 1 tablespoon oil until tender about 3 minutes. Turn heat to medium, add the garlic and ginger and continue cooking the onions until they are deeply golden brown about 3 more minutes. Add the mushrooms to the pan; cook, stirring, until wilted, 1 to 2 minutes. Add the vegetable stock, a sheet of kombu, mirin, gochujang. Bring to a Simmer.
Make Tofu:
Cut the tofu into bite-sized cubes. Warm a skillet over medium heat, when heated add 1 tablespoon toasted sesame oil. Add the tofu and cook for about 10 minutes until lightly browned and crisp on all sides, turning occasionally.
Meanwhile, stir together 2 tablespoons miso, 1 tablespoon soy sauce and 1 tablespoon water. When the tofu is browned, turn off heat and carefully pour sauce over tofu (be careful, it splatters!). Stir sauce onto tofu and cook additional minute over medium heat until fragrant.
Assemble:
Add the bok choy and ramen noodles to dutch oven. Cover and cook, stirring halfway through, until the boy choy is wilted and the noodles are tender, about 4 minutes. Add Tofu.
Top each bowl with chili.
Serve Immediately.
Notes
If you cannot find fresh shiitake mushrooms you can use dried. Just be sure to chop or slice them into small pieces.
New Orleans holds a special place in my heart. It’s a city unlike any other in the US, with its own language (the YAT dialect), music (the birthplace of jazz), and its own food (Creole and Cajun). And when it comes to gumbo, the great debate in the Big Easy is Creole gumbo vs. Cajun gumbo! My personal favorite is both the Creole and the Cajun style.
A typical Creole roux is made from butter and flour (as in France), while a Cajun roux is usually made with lard or oil and flour. This is partly due to the scarcity of dairy products in some areas of Acadiana (Acadia + Louisiana) when Cajun cuisine was being developed.
Creole and Cajun dishes are both built on the “holy trinity.” This aromatic base of sautéed bell peppers, onions, and celery, is Louisiana’s version of mirepoix, or the mix of carrots, celery, and onion used in French cooking. The trinity, a result of the region’s strong French influence, is a key component in many Creole and Cajun dishes, adding depth and flavor.
Creole food, on the other hand, has its roots in Caribbean cuisine. Okra itself is an African ingredient incorporated into Creole dishes. Filé, or ground sassafras leaves, is a gumbo thickener, similar to cornstarch today, and comes from Native Americans. These have all become staples of Louisiana food and essential parts of the Louisiana cooking puzzle.
I hope you love this recipe as much as I do! If you’ve had your own memorable experiences with New Orleans cuisine, I’d love to hear about them. Share your stories in the comments below!
The key to a good roux is to cook it “low and slow.” Keep the heat just south of medium heat and stir often. A good gumbo roux will take anywhere from 8-10 minutes to make. You’re looking for a nice chocolate color. I like to serve this over rice with a huge slice of my cornbread! As is the case with most gumbos, this dish is best prepared either early in the day it is to be served, or even the day before, thereby allowing time for the flavors to marry. When reheating, stir often!
In a heavy-bottomed skillet, heat 1 tablespoon of oil, add the okra, and sauté over medium-high heat for about 10 – 15 minutes or until all the “ropiness” is gone. This step may take a little longer if fresh okra is used. Frozen vegetables are usually plunged into boiling water and blanched before freezing so they are partially cooked.
Place 2-3 tablespoons of oil in a large (8 quart) heavy-bottomed non-reactive Dutch oven-type pot. Add the flour and, over a medium-high fire, make a darkend brown roux. If the roux seems too thick, add more oil. When the proper color is achieved, add the onions, bell pepper, celery, and garlic and saute, stirring occasionally, until tender.
During this process, allow the vegetables to stick to the bottom of the pan a bit, then scrape the bottom with a metal spoon or spatula. This allows some of the natural sugars in the onions to caramelize, rendering great depth of flavor.
Stir in jackfruit and sausage, and sauté for about 5 minutes, until the veggies begin to soften.
Stir in the broth, tomatoes, okra, Worcestershire, Creole mustard, pickapeppa sauce, liquid smoke, apple cider vinegar, hot sauce, and soy sauce.
Add Voodoo Spice Mix, bay leaves, and filé. Raise the heat and bring to a boil. Lower the heat and allow to simmer, stirring occasionally, until the broth is thick and the veggies are tender, about 30 minutes.
I’ll be honest. I love cheese. It was, in fact, the most challenging thing for me to give up as a vegan. As a result, I even created and taught a class around the art of vegan cheese making. Years ago, when I first went plant-based, the vegan cheeses at the store always fell flat. The texture was off, and the taste was subpar, at best. Fast forward to now, my friends. I am so happy to say that Daiya has come up with a Farmhouse Style block cheese that is extremely good and quite impressive!
I serve in on my charcuterie boards, and many of my non-vegan friends are amazed at how delicious it is! It looks like cheddar, feels like cheddar, and tastes like cheddar! That said, I had never really used it in a recipe until now! It was everything I’d hoped it would be! It melts exceptionally well and adds a rich depth of creamy goodness! Very pleased, and I think you will be, too! This soup is for you, Lisa G. I hope you like it!
Delicious smoky cheddar beer soup! Serve it in a bread boule, and voila, you are in cheese heaven!
Ingredients
Scale
2 celery ribs, finely chopped
2 carrots, finely chopped
2 medium shallots, finely chopped
1 large jalapeño, seeded and chopped
2 large garlic cloves, minced
⅛ tsp liquid smoke
One 12-ounce bottle lager or pilsner
About 2 1/4 cups low-sodium vegetable broth
1/4 cup all-purpose flour
1 cup plant-based milk
1 package of Daiya Cheddar Farmhouse Style block, coarsely grated
Salt and freshly ground pepper
Bread Boule, for serving
Instructions
In a dutch oven, bring ¼ cup veggie stock to a simmer over medium heat. Add celery, carrots, shallots, and jalapeno, cook until tender, about 7 minutes. Add more stock 1 tbsp at a time, as needed, to prevent sticking. To the dutch oven add the flour and cook over moderate heat, stirring, until lightly browned about 2 minutes. Whisk ½ the beer and all the stock into this roux until incorporated and bring to a simmer. Cook until thickened, about 8 minutes. Add the milk, and cheddar cheese, and the remaining beer and simmer, stirring occasionally, until thick and creamy, about 5 minutes. Blend with an immersion blender, or blend half of the soup in the blender, then add the remaining soup, and blend until smooth. Stir in the liquid smoke and season with salt and pepper. Add a few tablespoons of broth if the soup is too thick. Serve the soup with french bread!
Notes
I used a Belgian style farmhouse ale, and it was delicious! You can use Daiya’s Farmhouse Jalapeño Havarti, or their Smoked Gouda, for this recipe as well.
When my Grandpa Jack was a boy, he spent much time with his grandparents. His grandpa was a man named Joseph. Old Joe came over from Ireland when he was in his 20s. He played a juice harp (harmonica), smoked a corncob pipe, and had such a thick brogue that only a few around him could understand what he was saying! From what I heard, he liked to dance and was quite a character. I would love to have met him! So this recipe is dedicated to his memory!
Traditionally, an Irish stew (aka Guinness Stew) is made with lamb. I used hearty Crimini mushrooms for this recipe, but the Guinness and potatoes still qualify the stew as Irish. Regardless, it is absolutely delicious. Not too heavy but still extremely filling. In southern Ireland, carrots are added, and some cooks venture to add turnips! Enjoy!
This vegan Irish Stew reminds me of being a kid! My mom always made hearty soups and stews this time of year. The savory flavor of this soup is amazing and will warm you to the bones!
Ingredients
Scale
1 onion, diced
2 stalks celery, chopped
2 cups 1/2-inch pieces peeled carrots and/or parsnips (3 to 4 carrots or parsnips)
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 pound whole crimini mushrooms, diced
1/4 cup tomato paste
10 oz bag frozen peas
1 8oz. Guinness stout
4 cupsEdward & Sons Not-Beef Natural Bouillon Stock (or use vegetable stock)
3 medium russet potatoes, peeled and cut into large chunks
2 bay leaves
1 tablespoon vegan Worcestershire sauce
1 teaspoon dried thyme
1/2 teaspoon dried rosemary
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/8 teaspoon ground pepper
4 tablespoons cornstarch or arrowroot powder** See note
3 tablespoons water (to make a thickening slurry)
fresh parsley for garnish
Instructions
Warm a Dutch Oven over medium heat. Add onions and saute onions in a few tablespoons of water until onions begin to soften.
Add chopped celery, carrots/parsnips – saute for 6-7 minutes or until soft. Add garlic and cook until fragrant. About 30 seconds.
Clean mushrooms and medium dice, add mushrooms and peas to the pot, and cook for 3-4 minutes, or until they begin to soften and lightly brown.
Stir in tomato paste and add the stout. Stir well and simmer for 1-2 minutes. Add stock and potatoes.
Add Worcestershire sauce and seasonings, and bring to a boil. Reduce heat and cover. Simmer 20-30 minutes or until potatoes are cooked through.
Mix cornstarch and water. Bring stew to a strong simmer and stir the slurry into the stew to thicken. Stir well. Garnish with fresh parsley and peas, if desired.
Notes
**I like a thick stew, so I used 4 tablespoons. If you don’t want it thick, reduce corn starch to 3 tablespoons.
