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Recipes with dried soybeans

7 recipes that use dried soybeans, with photos, step-by-step instructions and cook times. The quickest, Bhatmas sadeko, takes 20 minutes. It is most often cooked with ginger, fine sea salt and sugar.

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Wuhan mianwo

Wuhan people call breakfast "guozao", and mianwo is one of its icons: a ring of rice and soybean batter fried in a special ladle with a raised centre, so it ends up thick and soft round the rim and thin and crackly in the middle, flecked with sesame and spring onion. It is eaten with hot dry noodles or a bowl of soy milk. The mistake is oil that is too cool: the batter soaks it up and turns greasy; it must hiss strongly the moment it goes in. Without a mianwo ladle, use a deep ladle and spread the batter thinner in the middle with a spoon. Chef's tip: give the batter a quick stir before every fritter, because the rice settles to the bottom fast.

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Kinzanji miso

Kinzanji miso is not for soup. It is a chunky, sweet-savoury 'name-miso', a miso you eat straight, spooned onto hot rice, tucked into a cucumber stick or set beside rice porridge at breakfast. Legend says a monk brought the method from Jingshan Temple in China to Yuasa in Wakayama, where the run-off liquid became Japan's first soy sauce. Traditionally it is made in summer, when aubergines and uri melons are plentiful, and eaten through autumn and winter. You can see every ingredient: soft barley grains, nutty roasted soybean pieces, little cubes of aubergine and cucumber, threads of ginger, all bound in a glossy brown paste. This home version uses ready-made barley koji. The common mistake is adding the vegetables wet; salt them, then squeeze hard, or the extra water thins the salt and invites spoilage. It is ready when the barley grains are soft, the mix smells sweet and soy-like, and it tastes rich and rounded, after about four weeks; then it is sweetened and kept cold. Japanese melon (shirouri) is traditional; firm cucumber is the usual substitute. Chef's tip: a spoonful on a cold block of tofu with a little chopped spring onion is the best snack you can make in 30 seconds.

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Pon ye gyi

Bagan, among its thousands of temples, is just as known in Myanmar for pon ye gyi, the thick, glossy black bean paste sold in clay pots at Nyaung-U market. Workshops there boil beans, ferment them under cloth, steep them in brine and boil the dark liquid down for hours. At home it is a seasoning rather than a dip: fried with garlic, onion and chilli as pon ye gyi kyaw, it becomes the savoury base for pork or chicken curries and for stir-fried greens, and is eaten with rice and raw vegetables through the hot dry season. The taste is deeply salty, savoury and slightly sweet-bitter, with a soft funk like miso and black bean sauce combined, and a texture like thick molasses. Common mistake: stopping the reduction too soon; a thin brown sauce will not keep and lacks depth, so cook it until it is black, glossy and falls from the spoon in ribbons. Bagan makers use different beans; this home method uses soybeans with a Bacillus-style ferment like thua nao. It is ready when a spoonful sets into a thick gloss on a cold plate. Chef's tip: stir more often near the end, when it can catch.

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Kongjuk

Kongjuk is the porridge Korean families make when they want something filling but plain: soaked soybeans ground into a milk with rice and cooked until it is thick, pale and creamy. It is a breakfast and a summer staple in the countryside, eaten with a little salt and some kimchi or radish on the side. The mistake to avoid is under-blending the beans: gritty bean skins make the porridge grainy, so blend long and fine, or sieve it. Stir often too, because soy milk catches on the bottom quickly. Chef's tip: skim off the loose skins after soaking by rubbing the beans between your palms under water; the porridge comes out silkier and whiter.

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Temae miso

Temae miso means 'my own miso', and the phrase also means bragging about your own work, because every family thinks theirs is the best. Across rural Japan the cold months of January and February are miso-making season: the low temperatures let the mash settle in slowly before summer's warmth speeds up the fermentation. Dried soybeans are soaked, simmered until soft, mashed, mixed with rice koji and salt, then packed tightly into a crock under a salt cap and a weight. By autumn it has turned from pale beige to reddish brown, sweet-salty and rich, with a rounder, fruitier flavour than shop miso. The salt, about 12% of the finished weight, is what keeps it safe, so measure it rather than guessing. The common mistake is leaving air pockets when packing, which is where mould grows; throw the mash into the container in balls and press each one down hard. It is ready when it smells sweet and savoury like soy sauce, tastes well-balanced rather than raw and floury, and dark liquid (tamari) has pooled on top. Chef's tip: make it with friends; a kilo of beans is a lot of mashing, and the batch tastes better for the company.

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Bhatmas sadeko

Sadeko means marinated, and in Kathmandu it is the word for the punchy little salads served in khaja ghar snack houses and at family gatherings during Dashain and Tihar card games. The soybean version is the cheapest and one of the best: dried soybeans roasted in a dry pan until they crack and turn nutty, then tossed while warm with red onion, green chilli, ginger, garlic, coriander, lemon and a spoonful of pungent raw mustard oil. It is crunchy, sharp and hot, eaten by the handful with beaten rice (chiura) or as a side to a dal bhat plate. The pitfall here is under-roasting the beans, which leaves them hard and grassy rather than crisp. Chef's tip: roast the beans until they split their skins and smell like popcorn, then rub off and blow away the loose skins before dressing them.

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Fresh hot soy milk

On cold Da Lat nights, the steam rising from soy milk stalls is part of the scenery around the central market: big pots of freshly made sữa đậu nành, ladled hot into glasses and sipped with grilled rice paper or a warm bánh bao. Made at home, it tastes nutty and clean, nothing like the cartons, and a knot of pandan leaf gives it the gentle vanilla-like scent that Vietnamese sellers favour. Chef's tip: rub the soaked beans between your palms and float off the skins; peeled beans give a smoother, sweeter milk.

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Goes well with dried soybeans