Raw, and wrigglin'

My first visit to an acupuncturist was a success. At least I think it was. It's a little hard to tell. I didn't feel magically transformed, neither able to leap tall buildings or touch my toes. But I certainly didn't feel worse. There was surprisingly little pain associated with eight tiny needles taking turns in my wrists, ankles, shins and back. In fact, it felt calming. Maybe my energy flow opened up and began to churn. Maybe I was reluctant to move while Rick, the acupuncturist, tried to jump-start my energy flow.

As you may recall, this all came about after I spent a weekend laying on the floor commiserating with peas and rice and a worn out hip that spread its evil ways to my lower back. I've been recovering slowly, walking not running. All this no exercise and too much food has left me feeling pretty raw of late.

After Rick finished his pricking, he gave me a 30-minute shiatsu massage. When it was all done, my head and neck felt lighter like he said it would. My hip still felt sore, like he said it would. He also took my pulse one last time and asked if I'd been eating too many sweets lately. Yes, but wouldn't you if you couldn't run around like always? Logic, never one of my strongest suits.

Rick told me to keep walking, keep stretching, and come back to see him in a few weeks. So I wandered around his neighborhood, Jiyugaoka, a tic-tac-toe board of shops, restaurants and coffee shops. I stopped for some tea and thought about lunch. What would suit a first-time needling?

Eel, I decided, and soba. Long, limber and soothing, grilled unagi is a rich, tender and buttery fish usually served on top of a tendonburi, or rice bowl. It's fresh-water eel, caught in the wild, and usually eaten in the summertime to provide stamina against the heat. Saturday was pleasant, in the low 60s, but I decided to rush summer with unagi and honor the last chill of winter with some hot soba. This, I have no doubt, was both relaxing and healing.

What's pink and white and drunk all over?

The sakura have come to Tokyo, a rite of spring that involves celebrating the burst of cherry tree flowers by stretching out under the dark branches with your friends and enjoying an abundant supply of alcohol.

















Make no mistake: the tradition of hanami, or flower-viewings, are serious business. Like so many spring flings, the parties started as a way to celebrate the end of winter and to remind everyone to plant his or her rice. But while the tradition is centuries old, the blossoms themselves last less than two weeks in different regions of Japan as the flowers open up in a ripple from west to east. It means people take off work, assign various food and drink duties to their friends, and even stake their claims in cemeteries to get a prime spot to watch the flowers fall.

On Sunday, we got our first taste of festivities as a few branches began to turn white and pink. At Ueno Park, people had already starting staking their claim, laying out their tarps along walkways. By next weekend, it'll be hard to even walk through a park. People will spread their blankets, sit and talk, and watch the flowers fall. Once you get the keg in place, it's a joyous yet slightly lazy way to welcome spring, a parade of petals that comes to you.

Along with the actual flowers come all things cherry-flavored: ice cream, mochi, and, I swear, I even saw pink eggs at the grocery a few days ago. Last week, a friend at work brought in juyenmanju, sweet little fried pieces of dough filled with sweetened red beans. These 10-cent treats (hence, the 10 yen name) come in cherry flavor this time of year. I popped a few before I stopped to take a photo. It's so easy, right now, to swoon a little at all things pink. I assume my cheeks will be a little rosy and I'll be a little swooning this weekend as well.

Hopping and hoping

F. Jasmine Addams may be confused as the rest of us about marriage and friendship and figuring out where she belongs. But she has her priorities in order when it comes to life's most important quandary --what food would wake the dead.

"Now hopping-john was F. Jasmine's very favorite food. She had always warned them to wave a plate of rice and peas before her nose when she was in her coffin, to make certain there was no mistake; for if a breath of life was left in her, she would sit up and eat, but if she smelled the hopping-john and did not stir, then they could just nail down the coffin and be certain that she was truly dead. Now Berenice had chosen for her death-test a piece of fried fresh-water trout, and for John Henry it was divinity fudge. But though F. Jasmine loved the hopping-john the very best, the others also liked it well enough, and all three of them enjoyed the dinner that day: the ham knuckle, the hopping-john, cornbread, hot baked sweet potatoes, and the buttermilk. And as they ate, they carried on the conversation."

I read most of Carson McCullers' "The Member of the Wedding" on Friday. It's hard to begrudge an entire day reading, but it wasn't how I had planned on starting the weekend. I was supposed to get on the train, ride out to a friend's house for a barbecue, then spend all Saturday skiing. Instead, I lay on the floor, nursing a pulled muscle in my back.

It was a long, rainy day, and I followed 12-year-old F. Jasmine through bar booths and dusty sidewalks as she bragged of her sophisticated plans to elope with her unsuspecting brother and his bride into a new life of open roads and fancy restaurants and Alaska's sky. When her plans fell apart, I could empathize. There's nothing like knowing there's a party going on while you're stuck on the outskirts. Age, it appears, can affect your social plans coming and going.

This is one of the many reasons I believe you should always have some black-eyed peas in the freezer, waiting to be reheated and spooned over rice. There's no great secret to making hopping-john: you boil up black-eyed peas (which you've soaked over night) along with a smoked hamhock, an onion, a couple of cloves of garlic, salt and pepper. I add a little ground cumin, to enhance the smokiness. It helps if you have a cast-iron dutch oven. You fry the hamhock, then the vegetables, then add the cumin, peas and cover with water. Once you've brought the peas to a boil you can continue to simmer on the stove or put in a slow oven, say 300 to 325 degrees. Stir every 15 or 20 minutes, and begin tasting after an hour or so. When they are tender enough for you, they're done.

I'm not quite as certain as F. Jasmine that hopping-john would be my final coffin test. I think my ability to wake up would somehow involve more butter. But on Friday night, the hopping-john did get me off the floor and into the kitchen, as least long enough to steam some rice. It's certainly a step in the right direction.

A night at the market

I don't mind cleaning my own squid. Really, I don't. Like other squeamish tasks in the kitchen, preparing a whole squid requires a little nerve and an open sink. With quick hands and a constant stream of water, the unwanted washes away soon enough and you're left with squeaky clean dinner.

But if someone goes to the trouble to clean a squid for me, who am I to complain? That's what I found at my local grocer tonight, a simple package of sliced squid, at less than $3 to boot. I had stopped to up a few necessities -- milk, bananas, beer -- but eggplant and tofu and ginger sneaked into the basket as well. By the time I got to the squid, a concoction of spicy, sesamey, gingery eggplant was coming to light.

Let me just say here that I love shopping for food. Some people think of it as a chore, akin to sweeping the floor or mowing the lawn or cleaning squid. I can't imagine feeling that way. I love the order, the choices, the textures and smells. I love sneaking into food markets while on vacation, whether in Beijing or Biloxi, to see what people eat each day. The pieces of fruits look like stacked toys, waiting to play. Baked baguettes make a crisp thud as they hit the bottom of paper bags. Even the meat section looks pretty, a rainbow of creams and pinks and rose. It helps if you squint.

Shopping in Japan, for me, limits my senses a bit. I don't speak or read Japanese, so I have a slight bubble around me as I shop. I can still rely on sight and feel, but my ability to ask about the freshness or even the cost of certain foods is a lost cause. I can manage a simple, "Is this mirin?" or "Is this kaki furai?" That's where the conversation ends.

But tonight, at the checkout, I caught the eye of a woman who was standing by the cashier. I don't know what she was doing, perhaps waiting to see if something special was in stock. She seemed content to watch me pay for my vegetables and bread, and her eyes followed me as I moved to the front counter to bag my goods. I smiled and she came over. She picked up a flier that lay by the door and offered a little advice. If I had waited until tomorrow, the bread and milk would be cheaper. I should pay better attention, she suggested, and save a few yen. I managed to tell her I was American but that I lived around the corner. I also managed to ask if the mentaiko was on sale; she laughed and shook her head.

It was the most interaction I've had at the store after nearly a year, and it reminded me of the other thing I love about shopping for food -- hearing what other people are going to do with their tomatoes or eggs or free-range chicken when they get home. Perhaps that why I've become so addicted to food blogs.

My grocery bags and I headed home for sesame -studded eggplant, with hot peppers and tofu and already-cleaned squid. I roasted the eggplant and peppers, then fried them with soy sauce, sesame oil, fresh ginger and some jarred plum sauce. I added some bean sprouts, a little water, and then at the last minute, the tofu and squid. In another minute, it was done. The dish ended ok, not great, I'm afraid. I realized later why. I was so mesmerized by the squid, I forgot to add garlic.

Kaki Furai

Spring is nearly here. The sun comes earlier and lasts much longer, and it feels warmer, even though my Yahoo weather says it's not. It's the time of year when you pass a dried, brown patch of land on the way to work, only to discover it has patches of bright green when you return home. How did that happen? Was it really that warm today? (Of course, living by Tokyo Midtown, the many landscapers may have just put down some new sod.) I swear, a couple of days ago, when I left the office I could actually smell spring: dirt and flowers and cut grass. It all made me a little sad.

That's because with the plum blossoms (out this week) and the cherry blossoms (due at the end of March), we must say goodbye to kaki furai. I know spring and summer have much to offer -- peaches and melons and tomatoes so good you can eat them out of your hand, over the sink, blah, blah, blah. But the trade-off is vastly disappointing. I'm facing almost a whole year without fried oysters.

About this time last year, I was introduced to Japanese oysters. This was no casual encounter, no one-night meal. I've always been an oyster lover -- each time I land in New Orleans, I'm slightly cranky until I get to the Acme Oyster House where I order oysters both on the half shell and on my po-boy. I never thought anything would beat steamy, fried oysters sprinkled in split French bread and "dressed" with lettuce, tomato and mayonnaise.

Then I met the Japanese kaki, and my oyster ship ran aground. I was in southern Japan, nearer Hiroshima, at Miyajima's annual kaki festival. I arrived late, about noon, and people were lined by the hundreds to get their free samples of oysters. I snapped a few photos, wondering about all the fuss. Then I noticed the fires.

The festival cookers had set up giant barbecue pits, open flames covered with door-sized wire grates hovering atop. On the grates were hundreds of oysters, steaming and roasting. This was no ordinary site. These oysters, in the shell, were at least six inches long. After taking a few more photos, one of the men who was doing the roasting shucked a kaki and handed it to me. The meat was sweet and moist and so tender I'm sure you could have cut it with a spoon. Me, I didn't have a spoon and wouldn't have bothered if I had. I did, however, have to eat the thing in two bites, an oyster faux pas if ever there was one. t couldn't be helped. These oysters were as big as the palm of my hand.

Thus, it began. I eat 18 that day, roasted, and fried and swimming in soup. You might think I'm exaggerating, or making it all up. It was a year ago. Nope, I remember, especially caused those last four fried ones nearly put me over the top.

I asked a friend about kaki furai at dinner last night (over Japanese curry, another food tale for another time). I told her I thought it strange that for all the sushi in the world, oysters on the half shell in Japan appeared only at western-style oyster bars, not at the local sushi kaiten. She said Japanese did eat raw oysters, only very carefully at special restaurants and strictly by the season. Kaki furai (pronounced foo-ry) were a much more reliable bet.

And much tastier, too, I have to say. I've not bothered to make them myself. Much like sushi and tempura, the preparation is so exacting I'm intimidated to try. If I haven't said it before, I'll say it now: Japanese chefs know how to fry. The oil is perfect and the food comes out crispy and light, with almost no grease. I can't imagine I could do this at home.

So I've been bringing them home, pre-cooked, in packages of five for about $7 a serving. I warm them in the oven, put them in a salad or eat them alone with steamed rice and pickles. They come with a thick, sweet soy-ish sauce, but I don't bother. In fact, last time, I ate a few before I remembered to get out the camera.













As the weather warms, the kaki shrink. There's no use fighting it. Life is about cycles. Here comes Will Ferrell in another pair of tight bitches, right on time. Kaki furai are around in the summer, but it's not the same. Already, this week, the market starting selling twice as many fried oysters for half the price. The mollusks were small, about half the size of their January brothers. Within the next two weeks or so, the market's fried oysters won't be worth the chefs' time or my money. Then, I'll have to turn my attention to new things -- strawberries and cherries and movies that make me laugh instead of weep. Not a bad way to spend a summer after all.

Mentaiko: A mea culpa

This is what dinner looks like tonight. I know, and yes, I'm sorry. But trust me: it gets much better.

This is mentaiko, pollack roe that is pickled, salted and spiced up with hot pepper. Please stay with me. Take small steps. It will all turn out all right.

Mentaiko has become my new favorite taste. It's a little salty, slightly spicy and adds just a hint of the ocean to whatever you serve it with. It's almost like a special salt or a fresh condiment that shows up inside onigiri or in rice tendon or, as I discovered in Okinawa earlier this year, on spaghetti.

Mentaiko originally came from Korea, which in my mind explains the spicy pickling. It became more popular in Japan after World War II, and more recent generations have adapted the roe into a carbonara of sorts. Usually, the pasta is laced with mentaiko, a little soy sauce with dashi (fish stock), cream, butter, lemon juice and ribbons of shizo, an anise-flavored leaf that often accompanies tuna sushi. The pasta is topped with sliced nori and served. Like carbonara, it takes only as long to make as it does to cook the pasta. Once the noodles go in, you uncase the roe from its sack (don't turn back now -- just think of it as a little sausage), heat it in a frying pan with the other ingredients, and then mix with the warm pasta.

I tried to create a lighter version, and I think I managed it reasonably well for my first try. I used ponzu, citrus-flavored soy sauce, with a little bottled udon sauce, which has a lighter soy taste with dashi already mixed in. I threw in half a leek, sliced, along with four little Japanese "hot" peppers, which don't taste hot at all but have a mild, grassy taste much more pleasant than a bell pepper. I sauted the onion and pepper in a little olive oil, then added the roe and sauces. Once the little eggs turned light pink (we're almost done, I promise), I put the mixture in a bowl along with the sliced shizo. On went the hot pasta. I tossed, served, and topped with snips of nori. And then I had this:
















See, mentaiko's not so bad. In fact, it's really, really good.

Two mentaiko, fresh*
2 to 3 tablespoons olive oil, or canola oil
1/3 cup sliced leek
3 to 4 tablespoons sliced mild peppers
4 to 5 tablespoons ponzu, or more if you prefer
2 to 3 tablespoons udon sauce
3 shizo leaves, sliced into ribbons (like you would basil)
drizzle sesame oil
Strips of nori
Enough pasta** for two people

Bring salted water to boil for pasta; dump in pasta and cook. Heat skillet with olive oil. Add onions and peppers, saute for two to three minutes. Add mentaiko. The little eggs will pop a little in the oil, so stand back. Mix quickly, then add sauces. Once combined, turn off heat and remove to a mixing bowl. Top with shizo.

When pasta is done, drain and add to mixture. Toss, then serve in individual bowls. Top with sliced nori.

*If you're lucky enough to find them at your Asian market, cook them the same day you buy them. Otherwise, ask for packaged, dried mentaiko. I haven't cooked with this, but I believe it comes in a pre-cooked mix where you just add water. Not the best substitution, I know, but it might be worth a try.

**Most Japanese recipes call for spaghetti, but I used a shorter pasta with ridges. I'm not such a fan of twirling pasta round the fork.

Progress

Today is Hina Matsuri, Japan's Girls' Day or Doll Festival. It's a tradition that began in the late 8th century, back when the third day of the third month was determined by the lunar calendar. That would have been around May, when peach blossoms were out, the world was smelling sweet, and it was time for a collective "Awwwww."

Families collected bad spirits, folded them into paper dolls and set them afloat on rivers, leaving the households' daughters better prepared for marriages. Nowadays, the practice is not encouraged, as it messes with fishing nets. And somewhere in the past 1,300 years, the dolls became hina ningyo, ornate dolls carefully arranged on a tiered structure and dressed in royal garb from the Heian Period, when Kyoto was the center of the empire. Finally, in the mid-19th century, Japan adopted a western calendar and Girls' Day got pushed back a couple of months into the end of winter.

So the people -- and here, I'm pretty sure I mean the moms -- adapted. Peach-shaped candies, sweetened with red beans, appeared. Clams, more a winter than spring dish, also moved onto the menu, symbolizing a perfectly united couple when closed and a Georgia O'Keeffe-inspired flower when opened. A sweet, non-alcoholic sake is still served along with mazegohan, a mixed rice bowl that you might find on your neighborhood sushi restaurant as chirashizushi.

The evolution didn't stop there. Oh yes, there are pink and white candies all around Tokyo today, special desserts and cards and other trinkets that I'm sure cost a pretty yen. But nothing beats the Hello Kitty encased banana I found at my little grocery store this weekend. It's times like these when we ask: What Would Freud Do? I'm guessing a little chuckle would be in order.

But, yes, Hello Kitty, we still have a ways to go. Tango no Sekku is celebrated May 5 officially as Children's Day. Until 1948, it was Boys' Day, and its traditions still include more dragons, snails and puppy-dog tails , among other things. May 5 falls in Japan's Golden Week, a set of back-to-back celebrations that are national holidays. The bottom line: on Girls' Day everyone goes to school. On Boys' Day, you get to sleep in and watch cartoons all day long.

This Girls' Day, and I, too, have to go to work. First, I'll slice up my banana for my breakfast cereal and give a little wink to Kitty. All seriousness aside, I get a kick out of the commercialization of holidays. We've got to find entertainment where we can. And if you ask me, Hello Kitty beats the socks off the Easter Bunny any day.

Happy Hina Matsuri!

Waiter, there's miso in my soup

A funny thing happened at the izakaya last week. Four of us were having a late dinner, an assortment of fried goodness -- oysters, chicken, pizza (it had a tasty fried potato hash on top), mochi wrapped with cheese and bacon. One of us, not me I'm afraid, had the good sense to order some miso-shiru for a little warmth and nutrition on the table.

"What is miso anyway?" the soup sipper asked.

My friend and I answered at the same time. Ground soy beans, I said. Fermented rice, she said. We both looked at each other, perplexed. "But fermented beans are natto," my friend logically replied. She had a point. Fermented soy beans are natto, a sour, stringy blob with an unfortunate smell that is a staple in Japan but that few westerners, including me, can eat. And my friend, I should mention, is Japanese. Who was I to argue?

But rice in miso? Every American recipe I'd ever read said miso was fermented bean paste. I've been trying to hard to learn about Japanese food. I mean, I'd even try natto again. Really. Just to be sure it's one of the most unpleasant tastes in the world. So how could I be wrong about miso?

So this is what it comes to. Here I am, an American who speaks no Japanese arguing with a Japanese woman about a building block of her own cuisine. I could feel my visa crumpling. In my own defense I had had a margarita and two beers before our 10 o'clock dinner. In her own defense, she decided we should wait a day and ask another friend's advice to break the stalemate.

We forgot about the great miso debate the next day, so it wasn't until this morning I decided to consult Shizuo Tsuji. His entry on page 76 reads: Miso, fermented bean paste. Ha! But the entry goes on for a page and half. Turns out miso starts with crushed boiled soy beans, but it needs wheat, barley or rice to work with the active ingredient to make the fermentation work. The variety of ingredients and the length of maturity accounts for the variety of flavors. Light or yellow miso includes rice, which makes it sweet and good for dressings. Red miso, the most common kind in America, uses barley. Some miso pastes are allowed to age for three years, some chunky, some smooth. Certain kinds can be salty, but I've found the types I've tried in Japan are much less salty than the tubs I bought in America. It makes me think the salty stereotype of Japan's soy products are really another bastardization of a wonderfully healthy food.

And miso is nothing if not healthy -- protein, iron and non-sat fat, the good kind. It gives tang and depth to marinades and dressings. I've taken to using a small spoonful to clear-broth soups that taste a little tired, much like you would with tomato paste. Yes, it has some salt. But if you put it on plain fish or mix it with vinegar and oil for a quick salad dressing, I say no harm, no foul. It's certainly healthier than eating fried potatoes on top of a pizza. We all have choices to make.

Last weekend in Nagano, I picked up a small jar of Nagano miso, one made with ingredients from the mountains that is supposed to give a stronger, sharper taste. Of course, I know now in theory what sits in the jar. But I'll have to have my friend help me with the kanji to decipher the exact ingredients. A little mystery and discovery never hurt anyone.