A monk named Kakushin, from Yura, crossed to Song China and studied at Kinzanji, a Zen temple, where he learned how a certain miso was made. He came home with the method and with four Chinese craftsmen, and the technique spread around Kokokuji temple and the town of Yuasa, whose water suited the work.

The miso itself is not a seasoning. Rice, barley, and soybeans are fermented together with eggplant, melon, ginger, and shiso, and the result is eaten as it is: spooned onto rice, set beside grilled fish, picked at with sake. In Japanese it is a name-miso, something you lick rather than cook with.

During fermentation the vegetables release water. That liquid pooled on top, was blamed for encouraging mold, and was thrown away. At some point somebody tasted it and found it unexpectedly good, and that pooled liquid, tamari, is said to be the beginning of soy sauce.

I keep returning to the ordering. The discarded byproduct went on to become one of the most widely used condiments on earth. The thing it came off of stayed right here, in a handful of towns between Yuasa and Gobo, still made by the old method, in the same handful of houses, and still eaten with a spoon rather than cooked into anything.