It may seem completely counterintuitive, but there is a strong connection between miso and Parmesan cheese. They are salty, complex products made from the most basic and elemental ingredients: milk, salt and bacteria in the case of Parmesan; soy, sometimes wheat or other grains, salt and bacteria in miso. Each makes use of surplus product and preserves the bounty almost indefinitely; each takes time to prepare correctly, and neither process is simple. The effort that goes into them creates intense, complex and uncommonly fine flavors of the umami family.

About 20 years ago, I visited factories for each, and I Eurocentrically thought I was clever in bringing miso up to the level of Parmesan. Now I recognize that — although it’s not a contest — in a desert-island situation, miso would be my choice.

Limiting miso to soup is like limiting Parmesan to pasta. You can dry it and turn it into a condiment (which happens to be reminiscent of Parmesan); you can use it to create a fantastic compound butter (David Chang of Momofuku showed me this five years ago); you can stir it into mayonnaise, which is consciousness-expanding. And then there’s miso butterscotch, which sounds like dessert — and indeed can be — but is better imagined as a step beyond the caramel sauce you may know from Vietnamese cooking. Talk about umami! All of these can be steered in a variety of directions by combining them with other seasonings.

You will want to know “which miso for which recipe?” I’ve noted preferences here, but it’s better to play around than to get hung up on perfect pairings. White misos are milder than red; good miso is generally more expensive than industrially made stuff (the prices and label information usually make that clear); and refrigerated, miso keeps just about forever, so you can experiment with it at your leisure.