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.

The white stuff

Snow makes me high. Mountain-leaping, hair-flipping, Frito-eating high. I get a rush when the blue in the sky shines almost as bright as the white on the ground. Toes and fingers, which should be numb, get warm and tingly. Even the cold air feels warm in the lungs. The best part comes when the tricky sun makes the ice radiate heat. That's when I'm certain that, with a running start, I could take a bite out of the moon.

Saturday I went skiing for the first time in three years. It was downhill, not my favorite cross-country, but I braved it anyway. I'm afraid of speed and falling, so you can see the dilemma. I couldn't help myself. Winter without snow seems a waste to me, like crackers without cheese. Or life without cheese. I needed to be outside, warm in the cold. My friend encouraged me to try the hip new short skis that all the kids are wearing these days. I did as she bid, managed to do half-a-dozen easy runs without falling, and declared her a goddess. After all, she also has introduced me to eyelash extensions. Another story for another day.

Sunday morning I was still glowing. And I was also pouting because the snow stayed in the mountains and the wind was whipping cruelly around Tokyo. I foraged in the fridge and found two negi (Japanese-style leeks with more white than green) and a kilo or so of potatoes. I've made potato-and-leek soup about a dozen times in my life, but I've never been fully satisfied with the results. Still high and hungry, I wasn't going to waste time going to the store.

I know potato-and-leek soup is supposed to be all about the potatoes and leeks, but somehow that's never been enough. Julia says use only water, plus a bay leaf, thyme, some salt. I still trust her on many, many things. But with potato soup, my tongue craves a little more.

I decided to doctor. White pepper, a good knob of butter, a healthy half-teaspoon of ground ginger.* It simmered on the stove and made the house smell like potato pancakes. That, my friends, is a good smell. After everything was soft but just short of mushy, it all went through the blender. Three (ok, four) ladles went into the bowl. Then I got to thinking. White sesame seeds. What's life without a little garnish? It'd be like winter without the snow.
















Potato-and-leek soup with sesame garnish

2 leeks, preferably with lots of white, cleaned and sliced into rounds
2 pounds white potatoes, peeled and cubed
1/2 teaspoon sea salt
3 tablespoons olive oil
3 tablespoons butter
1/2 teaspoon ground white pepper
1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
1 quart of organic, low-sodium chicken stock (or homemade)

5 to 6 tablespoons of white sesame seeds
toasted sesame oil

Heat olive oil and butter in soup pot over medium high heat until melted and hot, but not browning. Add leeks and salt and saute for about 10 minutes until soft. Try not to brown. Add potatoes and stir. Let them fry a little while you add the pepper and ginger. After two or three minutes, add stock. Bring to a simmer and let cook for 20 to 30 minutes. When the potatoes are fork tender, turn off the heat. Blend in batches. Be careful to fill the blender pitcher only 1/3 full; hold a kitchen towel over the cover when you blend. The hot soup can spurt all over.

Once it's all blended, return to the stove and keep warm. To serve, ladle soup into each serving bowl and top with ground sesame seeds (probably about a teaspoon per bowl) and a drizzle of sesame oil.

*If you ever want to test your powdered ginger to see if it's still fresh, it's probably not the best idea to hold the little canister directly under your nose and inhale as if you hadn't had a decent breath in an hour or so. Tasting, in hindsight, might prove a safer option.

I scream

Four thousand year ago, someone in India got the brilliant idea to strip a sesamum of its seeds and sprinkle them on a bagel. Approximately 3,975 years later, another well-meaning sap used them to decorate a hamburger bun. To this day, legend has it that sesame seeds are the most nutritious part of a Big Mac. It's an urban myth I swear by.

Meanwhile, in other parts of the world, people were grinding sesame seeds into wonderful things, like tahini, pasteli, flavored kim, and gomashio, a mix of ground sesame and salt found on some Japanese tables as a condiment. (Or, alternatively, gomashio is a phrase used to describe salt-and-pepper hair. I love it when the world feels this small.)

Finally, thank goodness, someone thought to grind up black sesame seeds and make ice cream.

About once a year, usually in the summer, I consider getting an ice cream maker. Peaches and strawberries and lychees and melons -- I love sorbet. In Paris, they use nutella. In Kamakura, they use sweet potatoes. It sounds outrageous and fun. But my kitchen is small and the investment is large, especially when you consider this one weighs 33 pounds.

Thank goodness for Tokyo Midtown, the shopping and business behemoth around the corner from my apartment. I rarely get past the basement, the food court and emporium, where you can buy Kyodo tofu, handmade onigiri, and $100 cantaloupes. It all makes an ice cream maker seem like a bargain, I know.
















Still, it's easier to plunk down 550 yen, about $5, and get a single serving of black sesame ice cream. If you like peanut butter ice cream, you'd love this flavor. If you've never had peanut butter ice cream, what are you waiting for? I got this little tub at a patisserie that, funnily enough, sells chocolates and jellies and ice creams, but no baked goods. What it lacks in flaky dough it more than makes up for in creamy goodness. Black ice cream? It's a dream.

And I'm still thinking about that ice cream maker. Maybe this summer will be the one. Especially after seeing a recipe for yuzu sorbet. Maybe that fancy fruit store has a tub that will tide me over.

When breakfast ends at 4

It's early February, and I find that I'm the perplexed owner of eight bottles of champagne. There they are, lying along the bottom shelf of the fridge on their tummies, stretched out, practically yawning. It all came about after over-estimating our needs on New Year's. I thought each person would have about three glasses of champagne. I should have counted more carefully and bought more Knob Creek. Oh, those lessons learned.

Is there something you can make with so much leftover champagne? A lifetime supply of vinegar? Soup? And who in her right mind has leftover champagne?

Thus, breakfast. And, as this is Saturday, a tiny little hangover. So, I decided to treat a couple of friends to my version of Japanese breakfast. I'm sure there's no such thing as Japanese breakfast, much like there's no such thing as Chinese take out in China. Here, breakfast is just breakfast, and it's quickly becoming my favorite feast at the beginning of the day. As best I can tell, the meal usually includes miso soup, broiled fish, eggs (typically made as a beautiful, rolled omelet), steamed rice and pickles. And hiyayakko, cold tofu.

Hiyahakko is a simple dish of drained tofu topped with grated ginger, bonito flakes, chopped leek or green onion, and soy sauce with dashi (fish broth). It takes less time to assemble than it does to type this sentence, so I eat it about two or three times a week. But this morning, I decided to include the tofu in hot miso soup. My apartment is pretty chilly, as was my hangover. Thus, soup.

So I broiled the fish after dousing it with mirin, sesame oil and soy sauce. The rice steamed, the eggs -- scrambled with a little more sesame -- slowly cooked in the skillet. And the miso soup made the whole place smell earthy and good.

"How do you make miso soup?" my friend asked.

I paused. My Japanese friends may shudder slightly, but I've come up with my own version which is limited by my ability to read konji but enhanced by my love of mushrooms. But I think it's alright. Miso soup is one of those things that is based on a spoonful of ground soy beans. It's a little like asking how one makes cinnamon-sugar. You mix the ingredients until you're happy with what's in the bowl.

So I showed her my version. And then, we served it all up. A few massive cinnamon rolls from a nearby bakery, hot tea and good orange juice. And, then the pop. Hooray.

We tucked in just before noon and sipped and snacked. We talked about all the things girls talk about during a lazy breakfast with mimosas -- boys, car accidents, global politics, the best way into Tibet, boys. We made more tea, finally put away the leftovers around 3, and moved to the couch. It was another hour before we decided to fully wake up and start the day. More than Japanese breakfast, I love a meal that lasts all day.


My miso soup

When I asked one of my Japanese friends which kind of miso paste I should buy, she shrugged her shoulders. "The one on sale," she said, standing before the refrigerated shelve holding at least a dozen different brands and styles. Miso paste ranges from almost almond-colored (white) to a dark, rich peanut butter version. For now, I've settled on the paste that has a bit of a tan, and, usually, is on sale. It comes in a tub or plastic bag, and it lasts in the fridge for months. Theoretically, that is.

Broth
Miso soup starts with water infused with bonito flakes and kombu. I keep forgetting to buy kombu, so mine starts with water and bonito (flaked, dried fish). I put one package of bonito (about a handful of fish flakes) into about four cups of water. Bring just to a boil and turn off. Strain the bonito, reserving the broth. Return broth to the pan and put on a slow burner.

To the broth, I add one soup spoon of miso paste and mix until dissolved. Taste it and see if it's salty enough or strong enough for you. Add a little water if it's too strong; add a little more paste if it's too bland. Then, I usually add whatever mushrooms I have on hand. I just cut them in bite-sized pieces and add to the broth. (I would avoid button or portabello and stick to Asian versions.) They usually need about five to ten minutes in the broth.

Bowl
To the soup bowl, I add a tablespoon or two of thinly sliced leeks (negi, in Japan), and either chopped tofu or a package of fresh soba noodles. When ready to eat, ladle the mushrooms and miso into each bowl. The steamy broth will warm the noodles or tofu perfectly.

Four cups of water will make enough for one dinner or two to three smaller servings as side dishes for any meal. The miso and broth will separate in the fridge, but it will come together just fine when reheated.

Of a Sunday

Today it snowed all day. It was a heavy, dumpy snow, one that required water-proof clothes and an umbrella. That blur in the middle of this photo is a snowflake. Or at least it was.

So after a short walk, I settled into the window and watched the sky fall. When it got dark, I made black bean soup, based on the Moosewood Cookbook, by Mollie Katzen. In between, I finished reading The Emperor's Children. Ah, such a day.

Today there were Brussels sprouts

So I lie. Yesterday, actually, there were Brussels sprouts. And I lie again. The story really begins on Sunday, when I was craving hearty winter vegetables, roasted and sweet. Sounds silly, but it has gotten pretty chilly in Tokyo. I know, I have endless amounts of sushi and other glorious things in Tokyo, but sometimes a girl just wants a little broccoli rabe to make things feel all right. Give me kale! Give me cauliflower!

Which brings us to Sunday, when, in an attempt to adapt to a different world, I roasted half a head of cabbage, a couple of carrots and leeks. These are old friends in a Japanese market, much loved in sake-soaked stews and mirin-dressed salads. But they didn't quite live up to my dreams of a toothsome, caramelized vegetable. They proved too mushy and squeamish even topped with a lovely pouched egg. Gracefully, they folded into some fried rice laced with sesame oil and smoky mushrooms. It all ended well enough.

But my teeth still yearned for the nutty chew of a few sprouts, which I had yet to see in a year of living here.

And then, yesterday. There they sat at my corner market in Akasaka, wrapped in cellophane, lined perfectly four by five. A little abacus of greenery, a quilted square of winter. My foraging had happened after dinner time, so I had to wait another night.

Tonight I came home to a cold, dark house and began. A little olive oil, salt, pepper and a hot, hot oven were called upon. Twenty minutes of roasting, a few shakes of the pan, a pot of boiling water with fusilli. Shaved pecorino, a little chicken broth, a dab of butter. Drain the pasta, dump into a bowl of cheese, broth, butter and roasted sprouts. Pour a glass of white wine and light a candle. And remember -- simple roasted vegetables with butter and wine turn a cold house at the end of a long day into a steamy meal in a warm, warm home.




















P.S. And they make a perfect after dinner snack with that second glass of wine.