The smell hit before the water boiled — green and faintly mineral, the way coastal air smells after rain moves through. I'd picked up a bundle of stinging nettles from Kaela's table at the Thursday market, the last of the spring run, she said, bagged loose in brown paper and slightly damp. I blanched them longer than I meant to on the left burner, which always runs hotter than the dial suggests, and the color dulled from bright to something quieter, more olive. I stood there sure I'd ruined them.

But in the broth — a miso I thin out with dried anchovy stock I keep in a jar at the back of the refrigerator — the nettles gave themselves over completely. Soft, almost silken against the tongue, with a low green bitterness that arrived after the first swallow and stayed. Not unpleasant. The kind of aftertaste that asks you to slow down and consider.

I was out of tofu, which the version in my head required. I used a soft-boiled egg instead, halved, the yolk still with a slight give at the center. It changed the whole register. The yolk furred the broth a little, made it denser through the last few spoonfuls. I'd call it a mistake but I'm not sure I'd correct it next time.

My grandmother used miso the way other people use salt — in small corrections, always at the end, tasted constantly from a wooden spoon worn thin. She'd have been curious about the anchovy dashi. Maybe approved.

• nettles, last of the spring run, Kaela's table at the Thursday market
• dried anchovy dashi, kept in a jar
• white miso, about two tablespoons
• one soft-boiled egg, in place of the tofu I didn't have

The bowl made three portions. The second, reheated this morning with a splash more dashi to loosen it, was quieter and richer than the first. The nettles had kept.

#homecooking #seasonal #kitchenjournal #soupmakingseason