The Family Plot

The monk’s pleasant baritone, reciting a sutra, had been teasing my mind down a placid stream when the plump little obasan waddled through our private ceremony and hailed her friends at a nearby plot. I’d managed to put the blowtorch out of my mind by then, stopped worrying about the river of sweat coursing down my back, and reconciled myself to gently rocking back and forth on my heels as a way to stay in the moment and forget about the hot noontime sun. I had no idea how much longer the ceremony would take but figured that time would pass unnoticed so long as I remained focused on the clump of greenery on the horizon and tuned in to the sutra.

We were at the cemetery consecrating the family’s new burial plot. Father-in-Law had been trying to get one for several years now and to everyone’s relief his name had finally been pulled from the basket. He’d just made a special trip to Fukuoka to bring back the ashes of his mother, biological father and step-father and Manami and I were there with Minako’s urn. Grandfather Kaji went to war with the Japanese Imperial Navy and never returned;  his wife remarried but refused to be placed in the same crypt as her second husband’s sisters.  Minako was born in November 1998 with Edward’s Syndrome and lived for 34 days; for the past decade we’d kept her ashes in the household shrine.

We’d debated the issue “What to do with Minako’s ashes” many times in the past but never had to reach a decision because getting a family plot convenient to the house isn’t easy in this part of metro Tokyo. Father-in-Law got on a waiting list a few years ago and began putting away the million or so yen he’d need to pay for a piece of land the size of a bathmat. Add the gravestone, transportation and other charges and he probably paid upwards of $15,000. Manami and I went to the nearest discount clothing shop and picked up blacks suits used for formal occasions in Japan. Hard to believe that after 16 years and numerous funerals this is my first black suit; this should give you some idea of how much emotional energy I was investing in the ceremony.

Japanese are often described as sticklers for convention, and it’s true, they are, but like all humans some are capable of treating formal occasions with reverence while others treat them as just another formality. I look back on this experience and marvel at the perverse beauty of its complete and utter lack of reverence. I’d been prepared for the stiffness of ceremony but what I got was a cross between the Beverly Hillbillies and Caddyshack. To my left, a score of boisterous bumpkins. Were they blissfully unaware of our presence or just numbskulls who don’t know any better? To my right, the in-laws, my spouse and children and, hovering on the edge of my field of vision, Carl Spackler incarnate.

The family plot

I dislike intensely people who gab during movies, who fart on trains, and who talk within earshot during a ceremony. Maybe it’s my Polish blood, maybe I just lack patience and perspective; whatever it is, I tend to react inappropriately. So when I strode over to the bumpkins I did so with some trepidation, aware that I was of two distinct and irreconcilable minds: the gentleman seeking to defend his father-in-law’s dignity by inquiring of these fine people if it was in any way possible for them to please be slightly more, uh, thoughtful given the, uh, circumstances; and the berserker ready and willing to throw it all away for the momentary pleasure of throttling the life out of the first gormless little bastard I could get my hands on. I thought of my long-suffering spouse and compromised: “Would you mind terribly shutting the fuck up … please?” Later, when we were at the restaurant rehashing the day’s events, Father-in-Law took a sip of beer and asked casually, “So who were those friends of yours?”

I sidled back into friendly territory. The yokels responded to my request by upping the volume, and for a second there I could see Dubya on the deck of that aircraft carrier, big old “Mission Accomplished!” banner plastered on the superstructure behind him. Fortunately, another of Nature’s lovely little creatures chose to intervene at that moment and divert my attention.

The monk was a strikingly soft-spoken, mildly obsequious man in his 50s, and the steady breeze that had kicked up was playing havoc with his ceremony. At a certain point he is supposed to stand a little paper icon on top of the gravestone; after it toppled over for the third time, he turned to face us and explained that he would hold it in his hand despite the obvious (to him) violation of protocol. With our consent he continued, drifting into the next sutra like a canoeist pushing away from shore into a firm, steady current.

Enter the beetle. Nature’s quintessential Little Black Bug™ chose that moment to alight on the back of the monk’s yellow gown. After getting its bearings, the bug began crawling up the valley between our man’s shoulder blades, doing so, I estimated, at a pace that would take it up and over the collar and onto the bare neck before the sutra had been completed. The bumpkins and the breeze were enough indignity for one day, and now the monk was in for another unpleasant surprise. My first reaction was “Smack it!” I soon came to my senses: “Can’t do that – my man’s a Buddhist!” I looked at my family. Everyone’s eyes were averted; hadn’t they noticed? So I closed my eyes, let go and let the gods: “Ah, what the hell. I’ll give it another minute and see what happens.”

Having surrendered to that which I cannot control, I opened my eyes to find that our little intruder had bugged off. In the restaurant afterward I turned to Mother-in-Law and asked, “Did you notice that bug?” A slight, reserved woman, she broke into a broad smile and said: “Are you kidding! I didn’t know what to do! It was driving me nuts!”

The final act in the ceremony is the offering of incense. At home we use one thin piece about the same length but half the thickness of a swizzle stick, break it into thirds, light and then place them in a bowl. For the consecration ritual, however, we each used a bundle of 40-50 sticks that looked like miniature fasces without the axe. “Carl” the groundskeeper took up a position slightly to the left of the gravestone, six incense fasces in his left hand, blow torch in the right.

“Right. Time to light the incense. Lemme just put these over here … that’s it … okay, gonna light the blowtorch now …Watch yourself!”  FWOOSH! Father-in-Law looks at him, asks if he always uses a blowtorch. “Oh, hell yeah. Not gonna get these lit with a cigarette lighter, you know. Take hours to do that! With this it’s just touch and go.” Father-in-Law asks if anyone has ever complained about his method. “You see those people over there?” He nods in the direction of the bumpkins. “Got into an argument with them earlier. Bunch a …”

Sealing the crypt

The incense offered, all that remained was to seal the crypt. “Carl” placed a stone slab over the opening and began to seal them together with grout. “Gotta make sure nobody comes by and grabs the ashes, you know.” Father-in-Law crouches down and asks if the seal is really secure. “Well of course not! All you need is a little leverage to pop off the cover! But it’s better than nothing!”

Exeunt

Having been paid, the monk by now had wandered off. The bumpkins had dispersed unnoticed. We took our leave as “Carl” was packing away the parasol and chatting to himself. The sun hung in the sky and the cemetery, its lush green rows empty save for the odd insect gliding around the headstones, was still.

Japanese Yen for Bowing

Memo

To: Office of the Prime Minister

From: Ministry of Boundless Enthusiasm

Re: Japanese yen for bowing

Hoping that the recent week-long spell of rainy weather hasn’t dampened your enthusiasm for reform, the MBE would like to report the development of a new program that, amazingly enough, promises to dispel several threatening thunderheads at one stroke. Indeed, we’re confident that this veritable silver lining may very well turn into a gold mine.

As you are no doubt aware, a number of critically important issues confront the nation — recessionary economic conditions, rapidly aging society, wheezing health care system, expanding ranks of unemployed workers, and shrinking consumption. We at the MBE believe, in all seriousness, that a concerted effort to stamp out bowing among the aged in the answer to all of these problems.

Let’s begin by taking a hard look at the facts. Informal research reveals that the typical pensioner bows 47 times when greeting an acquaintance on the street; this figure balloons to 72 times when the same pensioner is communicating with an authority figure (doctor, bureaucrat, etc.). Recognizing that the elderly tend to have a greater number of acquaintances, make more visits to hospitals/clinics/municipal facilities, and are generally more polite than younger people, and understanding that the population is graying at an inexorable rate, it is safe to conclude that we have a major crisis on our hands. The impact on the health care system of this possible and altogether probable epidemic of slipped disks and related ailments will be staggering.

We’re obviously in no position to force superannuated members of society to isolate at home. That proposition, while attractive, is politically untenable and — given the vast quantities of otherwise useful tax revenue invested to date in universal access infrastructure — wasteful. No, we at the MBE propose the introduction of Designated Bowers.

Yes, Designated Bowers. Young people gleaned from the ranks of surplus labor, trained at brand-name boutiques and convenience stores, and then auctioned off to the highest bidders every quarter.

The pensioners will benefit 1) by preserving their fragile hips and backbones and 2) from the prestige gained from having a Louis Vuitton Garcon at their beck and call (some restrictions apply).

Now, do you really think the neighbor’s wife will be happy with Fami-Mart Bart? That’s right: “Rip up the tatami, Taro, we’re going to Tiffany’s!” Unlock household savings, unlock the nation’s future.

As for the Designated Bowers, what better way to prepare for adulthood and its responsibilities than by learning at an early age the value of proper behavior, personal hygiene and the spirit of volunteerism.

A simple amendment to the Constitution requiring two years of “Gratitude Service” would effectively pave the way for this handy program.

Eagerly awaiting your reply in the affirmative!

That Shougayaki Joint in Mita …

Once upon a time there was a grizzled old crust of a guy, all sinew and sweat, who could tame fire. This was his only trick, but what a trick it was. People would gather in his little shack every afternoon and watch him work his magic. Armed only with a frying pan and ladle, he bobbed and weaved amid a curtain of flames to serve up plate after steaming plate of shougayaki (ginger pork). He had the rhythm, economy of movement and grace of a dancer. And it tasted great.

You could find him outside the shop at the end of the day slumped on a stool enjoying a smoke, and he’d dabble in some gruff small talk before stubbing out the dog end and shuffling back into the ring for another round.

Ginger pork is a simple dish: you throw some sliced pork into a frying pan with raw ginger and a ladle of sauce, flash fry and then serve alongside a mountain of shredded cabbage. Simple, sure, but few people can do it well enough to make a living. The old guy succeeded because people enjoy watching a master at work as much as they love a good story; he may have been uttering the same lines day after day, but then so was Olivier.

Well, one day our master died, and his middle-aged son, the long-suffering apprentice-cum-dishwasher, was thrust into the spotlight, and it hasn’t been the same since. Henry David Thoreau once said that “most men live lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them.” Everyone agrees that the son can put together a good ginger pork, but they also agree that it ain’t his particular song. It’s obvious he’s uncomfortable with the flame and lacks the economy of movement that made his father’s performance so compelling. He’s a competent understudy at best.

Oddly enough, he makes a fantastic menchi katsu.

電車の紳士

I’ve been trying to come up with the right words in Japanese to describe a young gentleman I observed on the train the other day. I thought かっこいい (kakkoii) was the best way to describe him until I did a little research at Space ALC and realized that its connotation was more about being “cool” or “stylish” and less about having a warm heart and acting with selfless valor. Another option was すてきな男 (suteki-na otoko). I don’t think 紳士 (shinshi), or gentleman, is correct, though it’s the best choice in English.

Let me describe the situation, and you can be the judge — and my teacher.

I hopped the Keihin Tohoku Line back to Omiya late last Thursday. It was about 11:30, the GW holiday had begun for many workers, so plenty of people who had been out drinking were now making their way home. You had the disgruntled middle-aged OL who had finally quit her job and was now torturing her slightly-less-soused co-worker with a drunken high-pitched monologue. It wasn’t until we reached Oji Station that either of them noticed that the train wasn’t heading for Shinagawa. I savored the schadenfreude. They were replaced by one of the living dead who, gripping the hand strap for all it was worth, swung like a pendulum and managed to kneecap everyone within arm’s reach of his briefcase.

Akabane Station and a massive transfusion of bodies. Among the rumpled suits were a handsome young fella and his slightly disoriented lady friend. You don’t really notice the people coming and going unless they do something unusual, such as stand arms akimbo and linger in the aisle like this young lady. So I looked up from by book and watched as the fella sotto voce urged her into the last available seat. Oh, okay … she’s had too much to drink and he’s handling the situation … everything back to normal  … what page was that …

Kawaguchi, Warabi, Minami Urawa and now the train is down to about 30% capacity. Most of the seats are empty and the aisles are wide open, giving everyone an unobstructed view. It might be counter intuitive, but I’d argue that crowded trains offer a greater level of anonymity,  your embarrassment contained by the tightly packed bodies. So it was poor timing on the young lady’s part to begin getting sick as the train pulled out of Minami Urawa Station.

Again, I hadn’t really noticed until the young fella, now seated, began rummaging through his backpack for … something, anything. And here’s where I was impressed. He didn’t fuss or complain, but picked out a shirt and handed it to his lady, who covered her mouth. Then he pulled out another shirt and began cleaning up her dress. And then he found a bag she could use, held it for her and began to speak soft, comforting words.

But now it’s not necessarily back to normal. The rest of us are very much aware what is happening but feigning disinterest. We’re not cold-hearted bastards, are we? We’re just following the script, unwilling to risk making the situation more embarrassing for the young man and his lady. I’m unsure what to do next. I have a new pack of wet tissues in my briefcase, but don’t want to invade the young man’s space, so I rationalize that the scene unfolding before my eyes is a one-man play, our hero braving the spotlight to deliver his interpretation of the archetypal “Gentleman Helping Lady in Distress,” perhaps the seminal act in a romance of timeless proportions. “And your father, he was such a gentleman …”

Whatever. But I can’t shake the compulsion to act. So I compromise: I’ll do something after everyone else is gone. By now the train has passed through Urawa, Kita Urawa and Yono and is pulling into Saitama Shintoshin. Where’d I put those tissues? Cue surreptitious fumbling. I find them as we’re pulling into Omiya, the terminal station. I figure it will take him several minutes to pack up his clothes and get his girlfriend on her feet, so I linger as the other commuters exit the train, then approach him and offer the tissues. “I’m sorry, but could you use these?” “Yes. Thank you very much.” “No, no. Don’t mention it.”

Uetake 1 Chome Charity Mochi Tsuki

Uetake 1 Chome Mutsumi Kai

Step-by-Step Guide to Holding a Mochi Tsuki (or How to Pound Rice Cakes)

Sunday April 26 dawned sunny and warm after a rain-soaked Saturday. It would turn out to be one of the hottest days of Spring 2009, but by that time most of us had retreated to our futon, weary muscles pleading for relief and bone-dry throats seeking something cool and frothy.

I belong to the Uetake 1-Chome Mutsumi Kai (植竹１丁目睦会) in Saitama City (formerly Omiya City), and every April we hold a charity mochi tsuki, or rice cake-making event, using the proceeds within the neighborhood to pay for a new portable shrine (o-mikoshi) or to put solar-powered clocks in the parks, among other things.

This is my seventh year with the Mustumi Kai. We also take responsibility for the annual Uetake Matsuri, Summer Bon o-dori, Kita-ku Matsuri, Curry Sports Day, Year-End Neighborhood Patrol and Hanami Kai. Anyone seeking a better understanding of how Japanese society functions at the ward or block  level is encouraged to join their neighborhood association. Grass roots democracy in action (with a Japanese twist, of course).

Our particular association is often accused of being a glorified fraternity for old men. Heh heh. That’s not far from the truth, actually, but when it comes to getting off your butt and contributing to the neighborhood, we’re often the only people who respond. I’m a non-drinker by choice — fodder for a different blog — but I’ve never been accused of raising the respectability quotient. All in good fun.

But I digress. The 2009 Charity Mochi Tsuki consumed 150kg of rice, 10 cases of daikon (radish), and several kg of azuki bean paste and kinako (powdered soybeans). We sold mochi cakes in packs of 6 for 300 JPY/pack and sekihan (red bean rice) separately for the same price. All told we generated 240,000 JPY on an outlay of 100,000 JPY. The profit will be banked and combined with the profit from the 2010 event to pay for another solar-powered clock. (The neighborhood decides what the money will be used for, and apparently the mothers place a priority on timeliness; the new clock will be the third we’ve built to date)

We got going Sunday morning at 7:30, gathering at the Uetake Jichi Kai Kan (植竹１丁目自治会館) to prep the rice, beans and daikon. The Jichi Kai Kan is the local neighborhood self-government association center — everything of importance to Uetake 1 Chome is discussed and agreed in this fine little hall and then announced to the residents using the kaidanban (a clipboard full of information that is passed from house to house).

We use special glutinous rice for both the rice cakes and seki han. After softening the red beans, they are mixed with some of the rice and then divided into individual steamers; this will become the seki han. The mochi rice is also placed into steamers. Once they’ve been prepped, all the steamers are taken to the o-kama (pots) where the water should already be on the boil. Here we stack ‘em and track ‘em — a paper note attached to the cover of each steamer tells us how long each has been cooking. We usually set up 10 konro (gas burners), of which four are set aside for the seki han stacks, another three for the mochi, and two to three for hot water.

Inside the center they’re prepping the daikon: cut off the tops, peel the roots and then cut them into four pieces lengthwise. These are then fed into an auto-grinder to produce the daikon oroshi (crushed daikon) used to dress the mochi cakes.

Time to get to work. We use a mortar and kine (mallet). First task is to clean off the dust, check the mortar and kine for damage and cracks, then wet them down and grab a bucket of water. We’ll soak the kine in water in between shifts to keep it moist and slick; this prevents the rice from sticking to the mallet. A few years back the rice cake went airborne, launched by a particularly robust thrust of a sticky kine. So, yeah — bucket of water is essential.

Once the rice is ready it is transferred from the steamer to the electric kneader for 5 minutes of activity. This little machine uses an inverted l-shaped hook to twist the rice into a single “loaf”.  From the kneader it’s into the mortar. The loaf weighs about 2.5 kilos and is steaming hot. Pounding is a synchronised exercise between the kine man (pounder) and the “folder” — the folder is responsible for keeping the rice cake wet, properly positioned in the mortar and, the toughest job, folding it over itself after each smack of the mallet. We have a bowl of cool water for the folder, whose fingers can get uncomfortably hot.

Handling the kine is not easy. The handle is about half the length of a broomstick with a slightly larger circumference — much like the pole from a clothes rack. The mallet head is shorter by a third, but thick as a god sized log. The handle is attached to the head so that the two form an “L” with a slight heel. Clearly, then, handling the kine is a constant struggle to compensat for this designed imbalance. The key point: gravity is your friend, so let it help you.

The pounder’s job is to position the mallet above the mortar so that the head  strikes the mochi more or less in the center. Here’s how we do it:

Step 1: Place the left hand at the end of the handle; use this hand to position the kine over the mortar.

Step 2: Place the right hand anywhere from halfway to three-quarters of the way up the handle. This hand’s sole task is to heft the kine above your head.

Point 3: Loosen the grip of your right hand and allow the kine head to fall. The head should strike the mochi with little or no deflection.

Point 4: Lift the kine handle to angle the head and then use your right hand to lift the kine back into position above your head.

Step 5: Repeat Steps 1-4 until exhausted or the mochi is ready. Intermittently dip the kine head in water to keep it moist.

The mochi is now ready. Place half a ladle of hot water into a large bowl and use this to carry the mochi to the assembly line. The mochi is gripped in one hand and forced through the circular opening formed by the thumb and forefinger. The forefinger slides along the thumb and cuts off a ball of mochi, the free hand trasferring it directly into the clear plastic container in which it will be sold. We use hinged containers that can accommodate six mochi cakes 2.5 to 3 inches in diameter. Now we add the toppings — azuki paste, powdered kinako and/or daikon oroshi — close the containers and slap on a rubber band.

We began selling the mochi and seki han at 10:30 a.m. We used a sound truck to promote the event around the neighborhood, and by 10:00 a.m. people were lined up around the corner. 800 packs of mochi and seki han sold out in about an hour.

Some points to remember:

1. Keep the kine and mortar moist, but go easy on the water. You don’t want the mochi cake soaking in a puddle.

2. Gravity provides all the power you need; don’t swing the kine, let it drop.

3. Never smack the mortar with the kine or you’ll be picking slivers of wood out of your mochi.

4. Have an official time keeper for the steamers and know how each stack performs — some run hot, some warm, so steaming times will not be uniform.

If you want to learn more about mochi-making, drop me a line. And feel free to come visit us next April when we’ll be at it again.

Uetake 1 Chome Mutsumi Kai

2009 Charity Mochi Tsuki

Prepping the mochi rice

Seki han ready for steaming

Prepping the daikon

Our man at the daikon grinder

Hot water boiling in the kama

Steamer stack consists of the gas burner (konro), hot water boiler (kama) and between 1 and 3 steamers

We usually have 4 stacks for seki han and 3 for mochi

We keep time to avoid overcooking

Your typical kine and mortar set

Steamed mochi rice ready for kneading

Automatic mochi kneader

5 minutes and the mochi is ready for pounding

Yep, this is a job for a pro

All set … heft that kine!

Raise the kine; gravity does the rest

Right hand lifts as the folder moves in

This fella put the young guys to shame

We usually have two groups going to keep up with demand

Even the local hard man pitches in for charity

Keep your kine moist, gentlemen!

Nictos could use some exercise

Gotta work on my timing

Seki han ready for the assembly line

Without the wives we’d be lost

Hard-working volunteers

Finished product: mochi covered in azuki paste, kinako and daikon

Seki han

Uetake Self-Government Association Center

30 minutes to go and the line is getting longer

Job well done and a free bottle from the local yakitori-ya

Umami – The 5th Flavor

Sweet, sour, salty, bitter – the four basic flavors. But since 1998, we’ve also had umami, a word borrowed from the Japanese. Umami, often translated as “savory”, can be described as the flavor found in chicken soup – the deep, robust, hearty flavor found in meat – especially pork – as well as tomatoes, parmesan cheese and shiitake mushrooms.

2009 marks the centennial of umami’s discovery by Kikunae Ikeda, who isolated the flavor’s source – glutanate – in 1907 and began to market it as aji-no-moto (“the essence of taste”) in 1909. Many of you know this product as monosodium glutanate (MSG).

The Umami Information Center was at the Foreign Correspondent’s Club of Japan (FCCJ) today for a panel discussion about “Umami – The World’s New Culinary Dimension.” Hosted byUIC president Dr. Kenzo Kurihara, the main event was a tasting produced by well-known Japanese chefs Yoshihiro Murata (Kikunoi, Kyoto) and Kunio Tokuoka (Kyoto Kitcho Arashiyama).

The press pack included a DVD: “Ambition: The Story of Kikunae Ikeda, Chemist”, a gold award winner at the 2009 World Media Festival. Umami is serious business for the UIC.

Konbu (kelp) varieties: the best are from Hokkaido

Katsuo (bonito) is dried and then shaved to add flavor to soups and other Japanese dishes. You shave it using a device similar to a carpenter's plane, collecting shavings in the box below.

Chef Tokuoka's risotto, topped with bonito flakes, was simple but tasted great.

Nictos RiPT April 16

1. Redemption Song (Live)/Dave Matthews Band

2. Carpet Crawlers 1999/Genesis

3. My Funny Valentine/Elvis Costello

4. The Lonely Bull/The Ventures

5. What You Meant/Franz Ferdinand

6. I Get Around/Beach Boys

7. Lazy Eyes/120 Days

8. Blue Bayou/Lynn Anderson

9. Lay of the Sunflower/Government Mule

10. The Pelican/British Sea Power

Lynn Anderson … man, she takes me back to Sunday drives in the station wagon (circa 1975)  listening to WJJD (Chicago, All Country). Tom T. Hall, Jerry Reed, Charlie Pride, Loretta Lynn, Tammy Wynette, Conway Twitty, Ray Price.

You can listen to most of these tunes on my page at Last.fm

Nictos RiPT April 15

1. Kyle’s Song/Moe.

2. Les Parapluies/Michel Legrand

3. In Fear of Fear/Bauhaus

4. Marlena/The Four Seasons

5. Ain’t No Big Thing/The Radiants

6. Oh Pretty Woman/Roy Orbison

7. Time Tonight/John Frusciante

8. To Get to Sleep/British Sea Power

9. La Mamma Morta/Maria Callas

10. Moanin’ at Midnight/Howlin’ Wolf

Enjoy.

Junior’s first day of middle school

Three years of juku (cram school) now a distant memory, Ryu was officially inducted into his middle school on Monday.

They say “It’s the journey, not the destination”, and I tend to agree, although today’s journey on a jam-packed train left my man wondering what he’s gotten himself into. He had a choice between a school in Tokyo and another near our house, and he chose the former. What that choice means on a practical, day-to-day basis wasn’t clear to him until we hopped on the Shonan-Shinjuku Line at Omiya Station.

Once we arrived at school, however, he recovered his enthusiasm. The 90-minute ceremony was held in a century-old hall that somehow survived the bombing of Tokyo – impressive.

The Daily Crush

My son is learning Japanese train culture the hard way – riding the rails in rush hour. Tony Mcnicol has some excellent photos about the daily crush. Check out his multimedia slide show.