Comfort Zones + Miso Noodle Soup

For some time now, I’ve been mulling over a theory about why life has seemed so hard to me since we moved to western Mass. On the surface, it looks like daily life should be easier and far more enjoyable. After all, only one of us works full-time these days, we now have two cars so no more strenuous bicycle commuting across town with children in tow, and we’ve simplified our lifestyle by cutting back on extra-curricular activities for the kids, weekly date nights for us, regular clothes shopping, out-of-town trips, etc. Plus the scenery around us is absolutely gorgeous, with mountains (well, hills really), rivers and ponds everywhere you turn. Yet even with life stripped down near to the basics, we still often feel too stressed to really enjoy our lovely rural surroundings.

At first I thought maybe we were taking things too far to the extreme, so I began to schedule regular play dates for the girls, attending a couple weeknight activities myself, and organized daytrips to give us something to look forward to each weekend. It was fun at first, but then actually getting out to do these things started feeling like one more chore. Also, we were living in a large, old house that was very difficult to keep clean and expensive to heat, so we moved to a newer home that is much more space and energy-efficient, but unfortunately, we have still found ourselves struggling to appreciate our improved living quarters, and there seems to be just as much tension in the house as before.

I was beginning to think that perhaps we were just spoiled, or extremely change-resistant, or maybe both. However, on a recent visit to the Boston area, I was negotiating busy traffic and maneuvering into a tight parking spot when it suddenly occurred to me that I felt very happy in that moment. It wasn’t the kind of external happiness that a beautiful day on top of a mountain might offer, but rather a subtle, internally-driven happiness that I was finally able to identify as the satisfaction of being proficient at something for a change.

Now I wouldn’t call myself a city girl, but I’ve lived in urban environments for nearly all of my adulthood. Over time, I have developed attributes such as having enough street smarts to avoid being mugged or attacked, the ability to navigate a car or bicycle in traffic, a mindset for maximizing time by clustering errands in a given neighborhood, even an instinct for the likeliest places to get change for the meter and which Vietnamese restaurant will have the most authentic pho – these are all things that over the years, I have become quite good at. And every single one of them is completely useless out here in the country.

Where we live now, it would serve me much better to know things like how to light a proper fire and keep it going in a woodstove, what the correct term is for when a goat gives birth, how to use an axe, and where to find aged chicken manure that’s actually been aged. Every single day, I discover something I wish I knew. And then I have to track down someone who knows about submersible well pumps, or septic systems, or driveway material, or building a chicken coop, remember whatever I am able to learn from them, and try to apply it the next time something needs addressing. Out here, it doesn’t matter that I can greet someone and thank them in 10 different languages, dance in high heels, discuss international politics and perform multiple linear regression analysis on a large data set without missing a beat. Nobody here could give two you-know-what’s about that stuff.

Have you ever experienced something this? I remember it happening when I joined the Peace Corps and moved to a small village in Ghana, West Africa. But that was completely to be expected, so I was well-prepared for it. Before now, I think the closest to what I’ve been experiencing lately was when I moved from downtown DC to suburban Northern Virginia. Goodbye walking to work, hello daily commutes on the 405. The stress I felt wasn’t really about being in traffic, though; it was more about having to suddenly think through every aspect of my day. Having to consciously decide to turn right or left out of our apartment complex to head toward the grocery store, having to read the overhead signs in the unfamiliar grocery store to find what I needed, having to navigate the parking lot, instead of simply walking down the sidewalk, in order to leave the store and head home. These and a hundred more small actions requiring my active attention; even more demanding, the almost constant need to search out new information, such as where was the DMV, what time did the laundromat close, and could we still wear jeans when attending our new church. Every night I would sink onto the couch, exhausted from what looked on the surface to be a fairly routine day. Nothing was routine anymore.

Of course, recognizing that what’s been going on here is largely a comfort zone issue doesn’t change much. I still spend most days feeling like a total rube – a city rube, that is – doing my best not to seem too ignorant as I ask questions of those in the know. The main problem, I think, is that I am curious, interested, and I do want to remedy my own ignorance. It would be one thing if I just stayed home, tended to my little family and minded my own business. But that sounds awfully boring to me. I’d rather explore, expand my horizons, push the envelope. So sometimes I do things like drive around aimlessly trying to learn the lay of the land, which might mean accidentally bumbling onto someone’s driveway under the assumption that it was a fork in the road. (Of course, now I know that the small number nailed to the tree is a tipoff that it’s someone’s private property, which they will kindly inform me after chasing me off the road and yelling what the hell was I doing there.)

One of these days, months or years, I hope to feel a bit more at home. And maybe someday, I might even experience an odd sensation when I drive into the city: perhaps a feeling of disorientation, maybe even incompetence. Then I’ll know that my comfort zone has finally changed.

For now, I'm turning to food as a source of comfort, and nothing is more comfortable than noodle soup. This recipe is fool-proof, it's delicious, and it will give you a good reason to not order takeout, since it's ready in under 20 minutes. If you like seaweed (our family doesn't), add it when you add the pasta to cook.

Miso Noodle Soup

1 lb spaghetti, broken in half

1 large bunch bok choi, chopped

1 thumb of fresh ginger, grated

1 garlic clove, pressed
2 T low-sodium soy sauce or Braggs liquid aminos

1 package extra firm tofu, diced small

1 green onion, sliced

1/4 cup sesame seeds, toasted in a toaster oven or small skillet (don't let them burn!)

1/4 cup miso - light or dark, your preference

Set a medium pot full of 8 cups of water on high, bring to boil and add spaghetti. Cook until al dente, or about 7 minutes.

While the water heats, chop the bok choi, grate the ginger and press the garlic.

In a large pot, heat 1 T canola or sunflower oil on med-high. Add ginger and garlic, then quickly add bok choi and soy sauce/Braggs and stir to coat. Saute for about 5 minutes, then add tofu. Turn the heat down to med-low and cover, letting it finish cooking while the noodles cook.

Once spaghetti is ready, remove it from the cooking water using tongs and add it to the bok choi and tofu, mixing them together somewhat. Remove about 1 cup of cooking water and place it in a bowl. Stir in the miso, then add the mixture back into the pasta water, which should no longer be boiling hot.

Add the bok choi, tofu and pasta to the miso broth. Serve with green onion and sesame seeds sprinkled on top.