The story was charming: a short article about soups, continually replenished for decades, secreted in jars across oceans. The soups, according to one source, were “older than Taylor Swift.” I devoured the article, published in December 2022 on Atlas Obscura, an online publication billed as “best-in-class journalism about hidden places, incredible history, scientific marvels, and gastronomical wonders,” and texted it to a few soup-obsessed friends. Then I forgot about it for months until the weather turned chilly and I pulled up the link again, only to notice the article had changed. An italicized editor’s note had been added to the top, which began: “This article has been retracted as it does not meet Atlas Obscura’s editorial standards.” The note went on to state that multiple details and interviews had been fabricated.
But how, exactly, permafrost thaw is turning these rivers orange has been a mystery. Solving it is crucial for understanding what the sweeping ecological impact could be and to help communities adapt, such as the eight Alaska Native villages that depend on rivers in the western Brooks Range for fish and drinking water. Some researchers think acid from minerals is leaching iron out of bedrock that has been exposed to water for the first time in millennia. Others think bacteria are mobilizing iron from the soil in thawing wetlands.
As exoplanet scientists fine-tune their ideas about where to look for alien life, they are now considering the origin of a star and its neighborhood, said Jesper Nielsen, an astronomer at the University of Copenhagen. New simulations, along with observations from satellites that hunt for planets and monitor millions of stars, are painting a picture of how different galactic neighborhoods — and maybe even different galaxies — form planets differently.
“That, in turn, can help us better understand where to point our telescopes,” Nielsen said.
In a dining room as serene as a Zen meditation hall, I relish a dozen distinct salmon delicacies presented like jewels on a lacquered tray. Pickled salmon milt. Crunchy, flash-fried skin. A pâté-like treat made from liver. The parade of briny bites is a symphony of flavours and textures, and every part of the fish, from the coveted o-toro (luxurious belly fat) to the organs, finds delicious expression. Even the bones and teeth are rendered into an umami-laden gel to be eaten atop rice. The meal – an edible ode to silky, orange fish flesh – beautifully expresses the Japanese ideal of mottainai, finding creative ways to eliminate waste.
While many Americans may automatically think of Korean barbecue when the notion of Korean food comes up, or other staples like bulgogi, Korean fried chicken or tteokbokki, Park's deep focus and exploration on banchan and Hansik at large — both throughout the book and also in his restaurants — shines a light on other areas of Korean food that may not be as well known.
For the nervous reader who has little familiarity with theoretical physics, the unvarnished prose and hypnotic intensity with how this narrative unfurls shifting points of view and embracing varying worlds makes for an enthralling primer for novel writing itself.
Using the raw edge of authentic history, a compelling cast of exquisitely drawn characters that includes some of the period’s real names and faces, and harnessing the anger, fear and emotional turmoil that gripped the city, Clements brings us a breathtaking, suspense-filled whodunit which thrills and chills from first page to last.