Indigo Days

Where is Home?

House Photo by Kenji Miura  

Japanese farmhouses are built with a series of posts and beams, though one main post is the center of the structure. The post that runs through the living room up to our bedroom is made of keyaki (zelkova). When Tadaaki was a boy, he remembers his grandmother rubbing the post with sesame oil to enhance the grain of this treasured post that held up the house. While the rest of the beams and posts are typically made from rougher cuts or recycled wood, the Japanese carpenter selects a particularly beautiful piece of wood with a distinct personality for the main bearing post of a house.

I often feel like that post is the backbone of our family and the house is the frame that keeps us together. So when I go away from the house, in some sense I am without my center.

Now that does not mean that I experience some wrenching sensation when I finally heave myself onto the bus bound for Narita airport, bags stowed and airplane sandwiches on ice. Strangely, I leave easily. It is the coming back that is hard.

Funny the words used to describe this process. I am a “registered alien” and have a “re-entry permit” to come back into Japan. In many, many senses of the word, “re-entry” does prove to be a jarring transition.

The house almost seems to have spurned me. Somehow life has gone on without me, there are changes that Tadaaki has effected in my absence—some not so subtle. The clutter has grown, and the same things that were on the counter when I left don’t appear to have shifted position. In some sense, life has stood still, but in another sense it has taken another direction and my space has closed up, leaving me almost an outsider.

Ace Hotel, Portland

This fall has been a particularly busy one for trips abroad. I spent a couple weeks “interning” in the kitchen at Chez Panisse in September, ten days in Italy for Slow Food in October, and then two weeks in California to visit family and attend a Japanese food event at the CIA in Napa this month.

When I got back from Italy in the end of October, I found a dog in my kitchen. Tadaaki had decided to give himself a dog for his birthday. Never mind that I strongly (and continually) vetoed the idea when Matthew began lobbying for a dog a few years ago. The morning I arrived home, my mother-in-law slid silently into the room and hovered as I unpacked.

 “The kids were lonely,” she informed me.

“I doubt it,” was my reply. At 15 and 13 respectively, Andrew and Matthew don’t really hang on my coattails.

Not one to give up, “Japanese mothers and fathers don’t leave their kids while they are still in school,” she continued.

Rather than say what I wanted to (“I’m not a Japanese mother.”), I got up and walked upstairs where I promptly got under the covers and tried to forget about the dog and the mother-in-law. Re-entry is not without decompression pains as one passes from one world back into another.

So why go? Why court this bumpy re-entry?

Hachisu Family Pottery: La Libera, Alba, Italy

When the boys were small, the need to get out of Japan mounted like a pressure cooker. The longest time between trips was an unbearable 18 months. In those days, the stress of running a small business, demands of farm life, bringing up bicultural children, and living as a foreigner in Japan was sometimes too much to endure. These days, I’m older, perhaps wiser, but certainly more prosaic. I don’t “need” to get out of Japan anymore, but I am pulled by the feeling of being connected to a larger world food community and those bonds do draw me to Berkeley or Portland and sometimes to the countryside of France or Italy. In those places I am quasi-normal and don’t stand out (much).

A few years ago Christopher told me he was done going to Italy or France because we only “moved house” so to speak. We had the same daily life in Italy or France that we had in Japan: hang around the house, read, watch videos and eat good food. The big difference that he overlooked was that although this was his daily life in Japan, mine was not one of leisure, so for me this routine was heaven. I’m not one for sight-seeing, I go abroad for the chance to eat a favorite cook’s food and a chance to use a foreign language (other than Japanese). And I go for the guilt-free ability to hang around and be lazy.

Though these days, I often write all day, and I don’t feel guilty being lazy.

Now that the boys are all in school, I miss that they don’t come with me, though I carry the memories I had with them. This last trip to Italy was the first without any of the boys, but I retraced our steps, staying in our favorite room in the castle and eating at our favorite restaurant, La Libera. In my transits between Pollenzo and Alba, I often found myself taking a wrong turn. But with those wrong turns came an accompanying feeling of warmth from that familiar feeling of getting lost in the same spot. That feeling of  “I’ve been here before.”

This last trip to Italy was for Terra Madre, a meeting of world food communities organized by Slow Food. As usual, I booked a room at the Albergo dell’Agenzia but assumed I’d be getting a smaller room as I was alone. When Liliana brought me up to the room it was the same oversized corner room with vaulted windows opening up to the garden where Christopher and I stayed each year while attending Terra Madre and the room where Andrew, Matthew and I spent a week watching ER on video waiting for a flight home after Tadaaki’s father died. Walking into that room on my first morning in Italy triggered those memories and brought tears to my eyes. And I felt the strange feeling of “being home.”

I have been thinking about this feeling over the course of these last few weeks and realize that despite my visceral connection to the old Japanese farmhouse in which I live, I also have a few other spots in the world that conjure up in me a different feeling of “home.” And all of those places are where I spent time with my boys, away from Japan and away from being Japanese. I will always be the odd one here in Japan, and maybe I will always be the odd one in other countries, but somehow in California, Italy or France, I introduced another world to my boys and we shared that world in a different way than we can ever share Japan. Because in Japan, their father is the conduit to how they enter society, but in foreign countries I am. And I liked that feeling of being in charge and that feeling of being completely comfortable in the outside world. My outside world.

 

 

But now I’m back. Installed in the house. Writing in the changing room outside the bath or snuggled in my covers, facing the center beam of the house, laptop propped on my knees. I’ve taken back possession. Sick of the dog dishes sloshing water on the floor, I moved them out of the way, but when no one is looking I give the jouncy bouncy black lab of Tadaaki’s a surreptitious pat. Her name is Hanako, but for now I call her Dog.

 

The Dog

The Art of Simple Food

All Photos this Post by Kenji Miura  

We were sitting in the breakfast room of our 80-year-old Japanese farmhouse when my brother-in-law reached across the 1900’s oak pedestal table and passed me an ochre yellow book with a wide red cloth binding. The book caught my eye even before I read the title: The Art of Simple Food: Notes, Lessons, and Recipes from a Delicious Revolution. By who else...Alice Waters.

It was early November of 2007 and the book was one of the gifts my sister and her husband had brought when they came from California for a visit.

I opened the Simple Food cookbook and leafed through some pages, skimming recipes and checking the overall organization, but almost immediately slammed the book shut. My sister glanced up, startled, as I blurted out, “This is the book that I want to write.”

In 1991, I started teaching cooking to Japanese ladies (and some men) and through those classes, slowly built up a base of recipes in Japanese for a cookbook. The original classes were held on Sundays and included a small glass of wine. It was more of a social event or a chance for the students to try new food, than anything else. As I began to understand this, I changed the focus of the classes. By this time, I had already started the Sunny-Side Up! Kindergarten/Preschool and the mothers were interested in cooking the food that I was cooking for their kids. It had been fun for the ladies to try Wolfgang Puck or Rick Bayless-style food, but the truth is, I wasn’t really cooking that food anymore either. So we stuck to basic recipes likes gratins, pastas, stews and meat patties that could be altered with the seasons and available ingredients.

But I digress.

Alice Waters’ book, The Art of Simple Food, may be the most well thought out comprehensive cookbooks I have ever read. It just makes sense. Also the bolding of ingredients within the narrative recipe format is essential for the busy cook. I know, since I use that style too when writing recipes for the teachers and students in my school.

I’m a bit superstitious of being influenced by other writing, so am careful not to read comments or reviews before I read something and I am very careful not to read anything with a similar style as mine when I’m writing a piece. I dared not open Simple Food because it shared the same flavors and approach as the book I had been formulating for Japanese readers. I did sneak another look around Thanksgiving that year and made the Herbed Almonds and Marinated Chard (both big hits). And needing inspiration for my school lunches and family dinners, I peaked in just a bit more and found the most addicting meatballs with Parmesan cheese. I also made the polenta and fashioned a polenta torta the next day for the SSU! kids. The adults swooned, but the kids weren’t buying the mixture of cornmeal, cheese and tomato sauce. Many Japanese kids (including my own) are not wild about corn-related flavors.

Eventually though, I decided to stop being silly—partly because of a conversation I had with Kelsie Kerr, the ex-Chez Panisse Head Chef who had worked on Simple Food with Alice Waters. Once again, I reviewed the organization and thought behind the planning of Simple Food and the closer I looked, the more genius it seemed.

Last year I became involved in a project to translate Alice’s latest book, Edible Schoolyard and along the way eventually got drawn into unofficially consulting on the Japanese translation of The Art of Simple Food. Some talk surfaced that the Japanese would have a hard time understanding or even duplicating this “simple food” that Alice writes about. I had to shake my head ruefully and mentally roll my eyes. I’ve been cooking this ingredient-driven quasi-Mediterranean California “soul food” for more years than I can count. Ok, about 32—22 years of which have been while in Japan. And hands down, of all the food I make for my guests, this food is the favorite of kids and adults, alike.

In mid July every year we do a big summer party on the brick patio under the chestnut and maple trees in the backyard of Sunny-Side Up! (our first family home, now a dedicated school). This year I was busy with my book proposal and keeping abreast of the field, so despite setting a date on the calendar, never actually sent out invites. I hoped the summer party would slip away unnoticed. Alas, that was not to be the case. Toward the end of August, Christopher suddenly turned to me at dinner and asked, “Aren’t we doing the summer party this year?”

Christopher was home from college in Portland for a month and somehow it was hard to refuse his request to do the party, despite knowing his offer of help would not amount to much actual cooking assistance. Luckily my ex-student-babysitter-mother’s helper-party assistant-globe trotting friend, Yoshie Takahashi, was back from two years working in Burkina Faso, Africa. The day before the party, we slipped into our old rhythm of cooking together and managed to finish 9 out of the 14 dishes planned for the following day. The rest I had already prepared earlier in the week or that morning. But one reason the cooking slid by so effortlessly was that I had decided to use recipes from The Art of Simple Food as they were second nature to me. Also it was a chance to test the theory that, in fact, this food was completely doable in Japan.

And as it turned out, this year’s Summer Party was the most effortless of all (though it might have not looked that way to the guests, since just serving up for 40 people takes a bit of time). I also loved the feel of the afternoon. As usual, we had a mixture of old friends, new friends, and even some little SSU! kids zooming around on tricycles and pulling wagons in the backyard. It had been a hot summer, but under the trees we stayed moderately cool and the rosé and beer didn’t hurt.

The food brought our guests together around the table, ebbing and flowing in and out as the afternoon wore on and the dishes appeared. I separated the food in groups: immediate nibbles easily served as soon as people arrive; a bunch of vegetable dishes eaten with toasted bread in the middle of the afternoon; and then some barbecued meat and vegetable accompaniments towards the end. And finally cold coffee and ice cream to send them along their way. I loved how the small kids, teenagers and adults all melded together in a homogenous group, sharing food and swapping stories. And was glad Christopher had pushed me to make the effort.

And I loved that Harigaya-san’s mountain group came to dance their wild lion dance to express their appreciation for the food. They set up their “stage” in the back portion of the yard under the chestnut trees and we gathered around as the drummers began beating a deep reverberating cadence and Harigaya-san joined in with the sweet strands of haunting flute notes. The shishimai dancers ducked behind trees and coyly feinted a grappling sort of “fight,” sometimes lunging into the crowd, “biting” at the heads of the watchers. The more intrepid kids held their ground, while some hid behind their mothers. We don’t censor here, Japanese love the phantasmagoric type of spirits that abound in their old stories and customs. With some matter of fact reassuring words, the kids accept that they know the guy under the outlandish wooden headgear and billowing antique green-swirled cloth garb. “It’s just Adam,” I say, for one of the dancers is an ex-teacher who now lives in the mountains with his wife and baby.

And as the dance ends and the musicians and dancers make their way back to the patio, guests once again, they leave the drums and cymbals for the kids to try. Four-year-old Minami jumps behind the biggest drum and throws herself into beating with joyous abandon. Kyo and Eric join on the smaller drums. Knowing the kids, my instinct is to worry about the drums, but I love the naïve trust the musicians have and let it go. And it is a beautiful thing to see the kids letting themselves get carried away by the beat.

Dusk approaches and the guests start to drift away, though some stay to help pack up the food and wash the plates. And as we finish our last glass of wine, two of the drummers perform a special fire dance as thanks to Tadaaki and I. With the insistent pound of the drums punctuating his moves, the first dancer, bare chest glistening in the firelight swings two chains attached with round balls of fire. He spins his chains round and round, painting circles of fire. I am mesmerized by the fire and wish for my camera, but do not want to break the mood. The next dancer emerges from behind a tree and joins the other dancer who smoothly yields the “floor.” This second dancer twirls his long baton-like pole with two burning cloth ends, sometimes tossing and catching the pole in mid air. And the drum beats on. Powerful and elemental. Under the trees. In the dark. A moment in time never to be repeated and impossible to capture on film or paper.

 

 
 

 

Okra Pickles: Of all the dishes I served that day, the one that every person commented on was the okra pickles. Granted, the okra was from our field and a special variety that doesn’t get tough, even when it gets a little oversized, but this is just a great pickle recipe. Earlier in the year I made pickled carrot coins for a party and enjoyed munching on the leftovers before dinner for the weeks following. An important point is to keep the okra whole so the seeds don’t escape. Also whole okra are easy to eat and look so fantastic. I hope you still have okra in your area to make these, though you could alternatively use little cauliflower florets, turnip wedges, onion quarters or whole green beans. Alice Waters suggests substituting red wine for the white, or adding some saffron, other kinds of dried chiles, or sliced jalapeños. I tend to make the recipe as is, but use organic rice vinegar and throw in more of the called for herbs and spices.

 

Fresh-Pickled Vegetables (The Art of Simple Food): Prepare brine (about 3½ cups) and bring to a boil: 1½ cups white wine vinegar, 1¾ cup water, 2½ Tbsp sugar, ½ bay leaf, 4 thyme sprigs, ½ a small dried red chile pepper (cayenne or árbol) or a pinch dried chile flakes, ½ tsp coriander seeds, 2 cloves, 1 peeled, halved garlic clove, and a large pinch of salt. Simmer vegetable pieces in brine (only one type at a time) until no longer raw, but still crunchy. Scoop vegetable pieces out of brine and let cool. If you have cooked more than one type of vegetable wait until they are all cooled before combining with cooled brine and refrigerating. The pickles keep well. 

 

Japanese Summer & Monster Weeds

We’re having the longest heat wave in the history of recorded weather in Japan. Today is Day 50. For many of you who have visited Japan, this may not sound odd since Japan is always sweltering in August. Typically the Japanese summer is characterized by hot humid days with barely a breeze at night to give relief. Clothes and body are uncomfortably damp from morning ‘til night, a reality that I had a hard time accepting twenty years ago when I moved out to the countryside as a foreign bride to my Japanese farmer husband.

We live without air conditioning, not intrinsically a problem for me, as I am not fond of forced air, though we do rely on fans to circulate air. But the first couple summers in our new house were fairly miserable and I fought the icky sticky weather with all of my spirit. I took a lot of showers and changed my clothes constantly, silently cursing the suffocating blanket of muggy heat. Year Two, I had newborn Christopher, and continued to drip unpleasantly as his body was melded to mine. Finally, Year Three I put on a bathing suit and t-shirt and jumped in and out of Christopher’s rubber pool, thus circumventing the troublesome shower and change ritual. I just stayed wet all summer.

But then Year Four came along. 

In December, I had lost a baby at 24 weeks gestation, I couldn’t get pregnant again, and life just seemed too damn hard. That summer, I gave into the oppressive heat because in juxtaposition to what was going on personally, there was no comparison. And with that acceptance came a small sort of peace with my life in Japan. I still continued to butt heads through the eventually pregnancies and births of Andrew and Matthew, but I never fought the summer again. And that has come as a huge personal relief.

This year is testing my forbearance however. Fifty days of temperatures in the mid-90s (36ºC) is hard to withstand, especially when the field needs attention and cannot wait for the cooler weather to come. What is unusual about this year is the blinding sun that beats down on the earth. The typical Japanese summer sees a rash of rainy days in June on into July, and then intermittent showers and hazy days during August. We normally don't get many of these burning-hot, bright sunny days.

At the beginning of the summer, for the first time, I was excited to weed and also determined to stay ahead of the monster weeds. Tadaaki alerted me when the little babies appeared on the field and advised me to hoe the surface to dislodge their shallow roots before they could take hold. I did so. I also brought the SSU! kids to the field and they helped since this is a fun and not so difficult task. I made squares on the field and had the kids take turns doing a square. There wasn’t much that could go wrong on this operation. But I turned my back for a week (or was it two?) and the next thing I knew the weeds had come back and were about 2 feet tall. I had to give up trying to weed the whole area and concentrated on weeding around the struggling summer herbs and vegetables. A row of chives had survived from two years before, despite being located in the middle of a swatch of wheat. I weeded them first because I love chives more than any other onion-like allium. In fact I crave chives, though don’t often have them. Recently they’ve been weeded out accidentally by well-meaning assistants or Slow Food volunteers. Tadaaki cropped the wheat while I was gone in June and uncovered the row of chives (that I had thought long gone). And discovering them on my return to Japan made my month.

 
 
My varietal thyme patch had survived and flourished for more than three years, so it was low on the priority list. The fraises du bois had been robustly healthy in early June when I last checked, so I turned my sights to the pressing need to weed around the newly planted summer shoots: basil, summer savory, marjoram, parsley, lettuces, tomatoes and scallions; and also the corn. Tadaaki cut the by then 4-foot tall weeds and I finished my weeding a little less itchy than I would have otherwise. But stupidly, I did not remove the cut weeds that had fallen on the fraises du bois, though finally did a few weeks later. My gorgeous wild strawberry plants had almost melted and I cursed my lack of energy and inability to have pushed myself to get them weeded earlier.

The truth is, going out to the field is like a daily mountain to climb. Once I start, I cannot stop because there is so much to weed. Because of the lack of rain (and the fact that my tomatoes were engulfed in weeds until recently), the tomatoes aren’t producing much. So except for the herbs, scallions and chives, my field is fairly sparse (except the weeds).

 

When I go to Tadaaki’s field I try to weed his tomatoes and peppers, but leave the eggplant, okra, and cucumbers to him. There’s a limit. He’s got a couple thickets of 12 to 18-foot tall weeds that I dare not tackle, despite the fact that one patch is casting a shade on my precious peppers. Tadaaki says he’s thinking of using these monster weeds as poles for the fall green beans, though that sounds like a messy nightmare to me. Tadaaki seems to love that style of dense planting. Maybe it doesn’t bother him like it does me because he works on the field in long pants and boots, unlike impractical (imprudent?) me in flip-flops and shorts. Jungle planting notwithstanding (or perhaps because of it), Tadaaki’s vegetables are always healthier and tastier than mine.

How does that work? I grew the shoots.

Tadaaki planted some on his field and I planted some on mine with the kids. After Tadaaki’s tutelage, I painstakingly laid down straw under the plants so the tomatoes would not get fungus from touching the dirt. Yet, my Sun Gold tomatoes have little flavor and Tadaaki’s (planted on his field from my shoots and no painstakingly laid straw bed) are bursting with that warm juicy distinctive “tomatoey” taste. It’s disheartening.

I talk a lot about putting love in the food, though I’m still learning how to put love in the field. But when I do, maybe then I can at least call myself a part-time farmer.

Cucumbers & Young Ginger with Miso

Eggplant Stir Fry with Shiso: Peel a small piece of ginger with a sharp knife and cut into about 1 tablespoon of slivered matchsticks. Stack about 10 shiso leaves together, roll and slice crosswise into fine tendrils. Slice 500 grams (a bit over a pound) Japanese eggplant down the middle lengthwise, then diagonally crosswise into slightly less than ½-inch (1 cm) slices. Heat 6 tablespoons high quality mild organic oil such as rapeseed in a large skillet over high heat with 2 or 3 dried red peppers torn in half (japonica or arbol). Throw in eggplant and ginger. Toss over high heat until glossy and soft, but not falling apart. Sprinkle with salt (or soy sauce), add shiso tendrils, toss one more time and serve in a medium-sized pottery bowl. Eat immediately.

Summer Vegetarian Dinner: Garden lettuce salad vinaigrette with chives--chopped cucumber, Sun Gold cherry tomato halves, and sliced hot pepper salad lemon vinaigrette—late spring harvest squash tian with thyme—skillet-roasted eggplant slices with pistou

 

Corn and Radishes

Corn and radishes go from bright and juicy to woody, in the space of a week. As soon as the first delicate little corn kernels are just raising themselves off of the cob, but are still not completely plumped out, we madly start eating the corn. By the end of the week, the kernels are turning chalky and it’s an effort to get through a whole ear of corn. From then the kernels quickly become wrinkled and inedible, and the few ears that are still mildly edible, were the slow starters, so slightly deformed.

Picking the corn a bit early was a battle I fought long and hard to win with farmer husband, Tadaaki. For him, it sounded wasteful to eat the immature corn.

Remember how I said that corn comes and goes in a week? The reality of that is that the corn from our field is at its peak for really only three days. Of course, we stagger planting, but we still plant a whole row in the field, and there are probably about 30 to 40 plants in each row. This year, Tadaaki was clever and planted a few varieties that had different maturing rates. The corn was even more clever and all seemed to mature exponentially at their peak. And one segued into the other so we had about two weeks solid of corn. Then nothing.

I love a lot of food in Japan, but the typical Japanese corn is not one of them. So unless we grow it, I don’t eat corn. For some unknown reason, Japanese love mature corn with broad dark yellow, very sweet (and starchy) kernels. And they boil the corn for a while. Until dead. They also eat the corn at room temperature. Too weird.

I had a friend who worked in an Iowa cornfield one summer when she was a teenager. She described how they prepared the corn for eating: pick the corn, husk, and run to the boiling water pot waiting on the stove. Turn off water and dump in corn. Cover and let “cook” for 3 minutes in the hot water. Remove with tongs and eat with salt and butter. I follow that method, but these days skip the butter.

Tadaaki takes it one step further and always eats a raw ear of corn while he’s still on the field. Now that’s fresh.

We planted the corn and radishes (late) in early June with the SSU! kindergarteners and elementary kids that come for After School Club. I prepared two sticks and we tied a hot pink nylon ribbon-string to one of them. A big kid walked down the field until I called, “Stop!” and we tied off the other end of the ribbon string onto the stick another kid was holding. We eyeballed a straight line and the two kids rammed their sticks into the loose dirt to mark the line. Hoeing a little trough out left me huffing and puffing, but it was a job I could not hand off. It’s harder than you’d think. Even I couldn’t quite keep the line straight and evenly dug.

I devised a system to give everyone a chance to plant, but also to avoid the massive seed dumping in one area. It worked. I lined up the kids at regularly spaced out intervals along the waiting trough and starting with the first kid, sprinkled some seeds in her hand. I then pointed to the place she should plop two or three seeds and thus moved down the line. As we planted subsequent rows, they started getting the hang of it. I’m working towards a less stressful, better-managed field experience with the kids, so am investing time in training them. The corn was slow to sprout, but the radish shoots popped up nicely the following week and valiantly raced against the fast-growing weeds over the following three weeks until their plump red bulbs underground had reached optimum maturity.

The radishes, scallions, and lettuces were drowning under the weed cover, so one day the whole school went out to the field to weed. The SSU! kids carried straw from the neighboring wheat field to lay down under the tomato plants. “Don’t step on the tomatoes!” was the refrain that day. My assistant Yumiko weeded the radishes and I asked her to pick radishes for lunch that day. She announced they were ready to crop, so we picked a big basketful. I meant to go back that evening to get more, but was distracted, and in the end missed the chance. One day of radishes was all we got this year, and that was my fault. Sometimes it’s hard to keep up and keep track. The radishes were hot and explosively flavorful, so even the kids couldn't resist them dipped in salt. I had some that night with miso as well, but am still longing for a few more. I suppose that’s what keeps me going, that desire to eat that special thing we have planted, I just wish I had more power to tend them.

Most of the heirloom corn seeds from Berkeley horticulture didn’t sprout, resulting in a scraggly looking row that also 

Most of the heirloom corn seeds from Berkeley Horticulture didn’t sprout (poor choices on my part), resulting in a scraggly looking row that also suffered from the weed explosion. It has been blazing hot during the day this summer and while cooler in the late afternoon, the mosquitos come out in droves, so weeding is a nightmare. I was working my way through my field trying to save the herbs, lettuce, Mexican corn, tomatoes, chives and scallions, but still hadn’t made it to my pathetic American corn stalks. Seeing me drowning, Tadaaki compassionately took a weed-whacker to the field, thus rendering the job finally manageable. The Mexican seeds I bought in the Ixtapa market were most likely meant for posole, and perhaps genetically modified not to propagate, as the 50 odd 10-feet tall stalks are singularly lacking in actual corn. At least the stalks are healthy. After all that work, we may get about 6 ears of Mexican corn and a perhaps two or three American. Oh well, it’s all a learning experience. Whenever I ask Tadaaki how to do something on the field his answer is always, “Just do it, then you’ll learn.” Of course when I “do it,” it’s most likely in some way wrong. But I am learning.

This summer, as we raced to eat four rows of corn in those two short weeks, I wondered if 

This summer, as we raced to eat four rows of corn in those two short weeks, I wondered if 

This summer, as we raced to eat four rows of corn in those two short weeks, I wondered if people really understood that corn takes three months to grow, but must be eaten within a week. In a blink of an eye it is gone. Fairly mind boggling when you think of the long growth process (and weeding), juxtaposed by the short window of maturity. The ephemeral nature of radishes is easier to wrap one’s head around because they only take one month to grow. One year I sent an email inviting friends to an afternoon lunch party and wrote that we had planted radishes for the party. The concept of growing something for a party blew away my Tokyo friends.

I still have a chance to harvest a couple ears of my fresh corn, (the Mexican one is meant to be dried), but that is it for the year. I can plant some radishes at the end of August, and hope I’m back from California when they’re at their peak. Another reason why Tadaaki says I shouldn’t travel—I miss the vegetables when they’re at their best. But then that’s the Japanese farmer mentality: don’t leave home. I guess I’ll never be a farmer.  

This summer, as we raced to eat four rows of corn in those two short weeks, I wondered if 

Japanese farmer mentality: don’t leave home. I guess I’ll never be a farme

 

Corn Cakes: These are adapted from a recipe in Chez Panisse Vegetables. The original method called for corn flour, but we don't produce that, so I substituted our own home grown four and some tasty organic corn meal I had. I also doubled the corn as I was looking for a big corn taste. Set corncob in a large bowl, and cut kernels off of 4 ears young corn with a sharp knife. After all the kernels are removed, go over cob with the back of the knife to get the juicy corn "meat" still adhering to the cob. Whisk 3/4 cup (75 g) organic flour, 3/4 cup (125 g) organic corn meal, and 1 teaspoon salt together in another large bowl.

Break 2 large farm eggs into a medium-sized bowl (preferably copper). Scoop the yolks out one by one into a small bowl by cupping your fingers gently under them (or use half of an empty shell). Heat 1 cup (240 cc) milk, ½ tablespoon organic sugar, and 4 tablespoons (60 grams) unsalted butter in a small saucepan over low flame until butter has melted. Let cool a few minutes and add in egg yolks. Slowly add milk and egg mixture to cornmeal mixture stirring constantly with whisk or wooden spoon to avoid lumps. When batter is smooth, stir in corn kernels.

Depending on size of your pan, heat a tablespoon or two of high-quality rapeseed, canola or peanut oil in a large nonstick frying pan over medium heat. Ladle in 3 or 4 scoops of batter with a soup ladle and cook until golden brown on bottom. Flip with a flat spatula and continue cooking until the second side is golden brown. If the cakes are thick, cook covered for a few minutes on low to conduct heat to the center. Remove to a paper-towel lined plate or cookie tray. Serve with a summer meal. Also would be good for breakfast with melted butter and homemade raspberry jam. Makes 20 3-inch cakes.

 

Corn “Kakiage” Fritters: Tadaaki hops the train every Thursday afternoon and travels an hour each way to practice the samurai arts of iaijutsu, kenjutsu and jujitsu. On one of those nights I got into a cooking frenzy and made salt broiled mackerel pike, salt-massaged cucumbers with miso and sesame, stir-fried eggplant with red pepper and miso, and served some beautiful local tofu with hand grated fresh wasabi. I also made corn “kakiage” fritters.

Baachan ("Granny") tends to fade as the hour gets late, so I was racing to get some food on the table before she conked out. Serving Tadaaki-style (one dish at a time), I called the boys and Baachan to the table to start eating without me. And in the kitchen, I munched on a crunchy-squishy corn kakiage, dipping the corner in sea salt before each subsequent burning hot bite. I ate two. They were that good.

Cut kernels off of 6 small ears of young corn as described in above recipe. Chop 2 scallions into fine rings (white and green part). Dump the corn kernels and scallions into 1 recipe tempura batter, add five ice cubes, and stir. Remove ice cubes. Follow directions for making tempura batter, heating oil and preparing workspace. Use excellent quality light oil, but only add 2” (5 cm) of oil to a a10-inch (25 cm) frying pan. Ladle in 4 scoops of batter with a soup ladle.

Cook over medium high heat until golden brown on bottom. Carefully turn over using two heat-resistant curved rubber scrapers.  Cook until the second side is golden brown and the oil bubbles have mainly subsided (indicating the water has cooked out). Remove from oil with a flat round slotted skimmer to the newspaper and paper towel lined cookie tray you have prepared. Eat immediately with fine white sea salt or organic soy sauce. Makes 8.

 

Kids, Food & Overnights

"Big Momoka," sister "Rammy," and "Little Momoka"

Momoka Kanezawa tilts her four-year-old-cute face up toward mine, eyes brightly excited as she accosts me at the threshold of my English Immersion Preschool in the Japanese countryside.

 “I wanna overnight Nancy’s house,” she blurts out, urgently awaiting my affirmative answer. I barely make it through the door when ten other preschoolers crowd around. They join her anxious pleas, which I palm off with my signature crunchy eyed-smile and a non-committal, yet hopeful, “OK!” knowing it’s not up to me. Alhough as their teacher, sometimes the lines are blurred, I’m not the mom.

Overnights at Nancy’s House happen a few times of year and attendance is a much-coveted privilege. What the kids don’t quite understand is that attendance at the Overnight is up to Mommy and Mommy’s willingness to pony up the extra fee. It’s as simple as that.

Why are the kids so desperate to go to “Nancy’s House?”

Since “what are we eating for dinner?” or “are we having ice cream?” are the most common questions kids ask before the overnight, I would say they come for the food. I believe in a no-holds-barred kind of attitude when it comes to kids and food. The butcher cuts me a few thick pieces of the best Japanese beef for tender marbled steaks cooked on the grill, I pick vegetables from our field and churn ice cream from local grass-fed cow cream, my husbands’ free-range eggs and organic sugar. That’s why the kids come.

 

But why do the moms send their little three year olds (on up to ten year olds) off for a night at my house? Like most of the special programs at my school, the Overnight “Camp” started at the request of the moms. I’m guessing they wanted a free night more than anything else. Some spend it with their husband, but others go out with “the girls.” In Japan, the babysitter system doesn’t exist. Parents rely on family members to watch their kids, so handing over a child and spending the night on the town is not really an option. Too selfish.

Never one to follow the rules, I hired a local mother to watch my babies while I taught. And I also found high school girls to pitch in part-time on the weekends so I could get some work done as we didn’t use a playpen, and parking the babies was not in the cards.But we never went out at night without the kids. Eating in restaurants (or traveling) with children is not what I would call “fun,” though it's a necessary rite of passage for parents to get through if they want to enjoy meals out with their kids in the future. For many years now, our sons have been delightful dining and travel companions, and the early years of harried meals and constant vigilance at the table, now barely a memory, were well worth it.

 

The Sunny-Side Up! kids are like my own, so table manners are taught relentlessly (sit on your butt, please…eat over your plate…close your mouth when you chew…turn around…don’t play at the table….the list is endless). I also encourage the teachers to actively promote conversation, since the table is a great place for language learning. As a result, SSU! kids are quite comfortable hanging at the table and just “shootin’ the breeze.” I feel strongly that everyone should sit down before the food is actually ready because I want them to soak in the cooking smells and get their appetite aroused. Also, I want the kids to have a visual reminder of the work that goes into a meal, and that it’s not just the push of a button (it helps that we have an open kitchen and dining space). Typically, the kids wait for about ten minutes or so as my assistant and I finish and serve the lunch.

Several months ago, I had a little oven disaster with a humungous Le Creuset pot full of cabbage balls. The bottom layer was almost cooked, but the top layer was virtually raw. It took another thirty minutes to get lunch on the table that day. And not one kid said, “I’m hungry,” or asked, “Where’s my lunch?” I looked over at the tables and the kids were chatting away, like they were born to be there. I was so moved that I put four fingers in my mouth and blew out a sharp whistle shriek to call their attention so I could tell them how great they were. And I gave them a round of applause. It’s their vocal appreciation and positive attitude towards the food that keeps me going back into the kitchen every day. You gotta love that energy (and those kids).

 

We had an Overnight last weekend and for the first time in three years, I did it at Sunny-Side Up! These past three years we’ve had our share of trauma and drama at SSU!, and it came to the point where I almost wanted to close the school. But I’m not a quitter, so I forged on, initiating a school garden project and increasing the school lunch program from twice a week to every day (except Sunday). Before you start thinking I’m a super woman, stop. I have an assistant who does a lot of the prep work for lunch and teachers who actually do the teaching at the school. I’m the “sweep in at the last minute person,” who takes all the accolades. Though I do hear from the teaching staff that the lunches are never as good when I’m not there. (It’s the love I put in.)

But Sunny-Side Up! has passed into a new era. We have an earnestly engaging new teacher, a young woman who is bicultural/bilingual and spent half her life in Germany. I’m writing every day, and find myself now able to work at the school despite (or because of?) the din. And we have two little boy kitties scampering around the house thanks to a friend twisting my arm (it wasn’t too hard). So Sunny-Side Up! feels like home again. 

And the Overnight was a blast. The lot of us all hopped in the big inflatable pools we have on the patio for a night swim right before a storm whipped through. And while we were swimming, one of the BBQ legs fell off and the $100 steaks dropped into the dirt. Tadaaki washed them off and slapped them back on the grill, none the worse for wear. When it came time to change into P.J.'s, I sent them off with an airy, "Go get ready for bed." A far cry from the days of frantically scrambling to get the kids to jump in and out of the bath and at the same time keep all the clothes separated and prepared for the next day. I've let go of all that. And we had raspberry milkshakes with French toast for breakfast. Like I said, it was a blast. 

Panzanella Bread Salad (adapted from Simply Recipes)

Elise Bauer, founder of mega-successful food blog, Simply Recipes, told me I’d love this salad, and I did, though I altered the recipe because of my mood and the vegetables I had.

I made this Panzanella Bread Salad for the overnight, and the kids liked it with varying degrees of enthusiasm. That’s OK, I just keep cooking regular food and eventually they all start to eat everything. I’m patient. In my version, I marinated the torn bread chunks in olive oil first and added homemade red wine vinegar (I was craving that taste). I also put in more cucumbers (about 4 slender Japanese ones), because that’s what we have coming out of our ears right now. And I wasn’t feeling the mix and sit idea, so tossed the vegetables into the bread about 15 minutes before serving. I also always slice basil with a super sharp knife because it bruises if you tear it with your fingers.

Wagyu Steak

I started working on my youtube channel: nancyhachisu’s My Japanese Farm and was looking around at what other people are posting. I stumbled upon a few Jamie Oliver clips. He’s an engaging chap, wouldn’t you say? I think he said something about rubbing a steak with rosemary and garlic, so I gave it a go. As I suspected, there was no hint of either flavor in the cooked meat, though perhaps dropping the steaks into the dirt didn’t help. When kids ask me why the meat is red (we serve our beef rare, no exceptions), I tell them because “it’s supposed to be.” Their response, “Oh, O.K.” Who said kids are hard to cook for?