The Cherry Blossoms Return

One afternoon this week I went for a walk in Golden Gate Park, to see if the cherry blossoms were out. I thought I had caught a glimpse of blooms as I zipped by in my car the other day and I wanted to make sure. The plum blossoms came and went quickly this year, helped along by an unheard of amount of rain, and I have been patiently waiting for the pink clouds of cherry blooms to appear.

I was not disappointed.

Down the hill at 7th Avenue and along MLK Drive, the cherry trees were beginning to unfurl into bloom. It is early still, just the beginning, but I strolled along the paved path, looking up at the translucent petals, pearly against a still cloudy grey sky.



I was thinking about my blog. Cherry blossom season could not come and go without some sort of a Japanese dish, but what to make? The truth is, though I’ve spent years in Japan, as a child and as an adult, I never cook Japanese food.

It’s not that I don’t like Japanese food, I do. I just rarely prepare it. And I almost never go to Japanese restaurants—it never occurs to me to do so. Though sometimes I walk past Ebisu at the same time someone is opening the door and the smell of warm sushi rice hits me, so familiar it is a visceral experience.

And yet I almost never cook or eat Japanese food.

Standing below the cherry blossoms looking upward (the best way to experience cherry blossoms*) I suddenly realized why it is that I don’t cook Japanese food and I rarely eat it elsewhere, usually only at the suggestion of someone else.

I can’t. I—simply—can’t.

When I left Japan eight years ago, it was the hardest thing I had done in my life. It may have since been downgraded to second hardest thing, as ending my relationship with A. two years ago was agonizingly difficult as well. In both cases I was making a life-changing decision that I didn’t even fully understand at the time. There were many wonderful, enticing reasons for me not to go, yet deep down I knew: this is not the path for me to take.

Building a life in a foreign country is a little like falling in love. There is the phase of amazement and wonder, of being charmed by the differences, the unfamiliar sights, sounds, and flavors. Nothing you have read or studied could prepare you for the real experience, just like falling in love is a surprise—wonderful, unique, and different each time it happens.

But the gloss wears away. You begin to get annoyed by little things—the trip between my bedroom and the bathroom at my Japanese family’s house that required changing slippers three different times, the lack of central heating that froze my soaking dishes into a solid block of ice during winter nights, the ATM machines that only operated when there was staff inside the bank building, shutting down each weekend or evening. Just like in a romantic relationship, eventually there are things that chafe a little, that take some adjustment.

But if the union is to be successful you come to some accommodation, some understanding that lets you live with and even learn to love the quirks you encounter. I know that living in a Japanese village affords no privacy (those paper walls are both literal and figurative). But the warmth that is gained by being part of that community, the concern and investment neighbors have for each other—a relationship often generations old—more than compensates for what is given up. I loved my life in Japan, the things that brought me joy and the things that drove me crazy. It was the same way I loved A. Both made me feel as if I had come home.

And yet in both situations I chose to leave, decisions I have only come to fully understand in hindsight. I often thought of staying in Japan. Not a week went by without a village obaasan or ojisan (grandmother or grandfather) telling me how they wished I would stay forever, marry a village boy, and have children. The more enterprising ones had prospects already picked out. And I knew it would be a good life. I lived in a beautiful area, high in the mountains and surrounded by hot springs, ski resorts, and trails where I rode my mountain bike. I had good friends, a job I loved, and I had worked hard to become part of the community, to put down roots. But I know now that I never would have been challenged in the ways I have been challenged since returning to the US. I never would have learned the lessons I now treasure. There would have been other challenges, I am sure, but life has taken me where I needed to go.



And it is the same with A. Though I could see a future life, and one that was filled with great pleasures, something made me turn away from a love so deep and unexpected. And in giving that up, and the endless doubts and questioning that followed, I have learned important lessons. I have learned that I never want to come to the end of a relationship and wonder what might have been had I not been so afraid. I never want to doubt love because it comes in a package that is different from what I expected. And I have learned to trust myself, because hidden amongst the pleasures of my relationship with A. was pain. Though I could not see it at the time, there were black holes that threatened to engulf me. I had a million reasons for leaving, but in the end only one: my path lay elsewhere. And that path has taken me where I needed to go.

But that does not ease the ache of what is lost. It is a death—of a life, of a future. I am happy with my life, but some part of me will always wonder what might have been had I stayed in Japan. And some part of me wonders what my life would have been like with A., though I know leaving was the right decision for me. That certainty does not assuage the bone-raking grief of loss. It was seven months after the end with A. before I realized the sun was still in the sky; even longer before I could feel its warmth. And in August it will be eight years since I left Japan.

As silly as it sounds, standing under that cherry tree in full bloom I realized why I cannot eat Japanese food. It is the same reason I find it difficult to be in a room with A., even on a social basis. Japanese food is the flavor of all that I have lost. Hidden in the sour-sweet sushi rice and the clouds of miso in a bowl, are the memories, the moments, the faces of all that I gave up. The loss is palpable and I cannot tolerate being reminded of it in this physical way. As fellow food blogger Béa wrote to me recently, “There is, in food, something else than just food.” She is right, there is a deep connection, a taste memory.

I stood there, stunned and a bit befuddled by this realization, but the tears were there to prove it was true. Hidden behind sunglasses I stumbled down the path, across the street, until I stood before the gates to the Japanese Tea Garden. It was late in the day—the teahouse closed, gardens deserted—and I wandered past koi ponds, blooming wisteria, and arched bridges. Far in the back I found a small rock garden, with a cold stone bench, and I sat there and wept for all that I had given up.

And then I came home and made Chika’s Yukimi Nabe. And I ate it slowly, savoring every bite, each memory.



What happens from here, I don’t know. But this miraculous little blog has brought so many gifts already—a reunion with cooking, a new excitement about writing, new friends, a deeper understanding of my mother, true love (whoops, that’s Molly’s life, not mine). Perhaps it can also bring me to a place where I can better balance what I have chosen with what I have left behind. The very first post I wrote was about Japanese food, and there has been another since then. In the months to come perhaps you will see more entries about Japanese food, and you will know that I am inching towards a place where I can cherish what I have experienced, without drowning in the loss.

Because, really, that sushi rice is too good to give up forever.

YUKIMI NABE (SNOWVIEWING NABE)

I wrote about nabe in my inaugural blog post. Nabe is hot pot cooking, often made at the table and served from a central earthenware pot (though plug-in electrical pots are becoming more and more popular). I have tasted many nabes, but I had not heard of a yukimi nabe until I read about it on Chika’s beautiful blog (she has the most gorgeous photos, you should take a look). Yukimi means snow-viewing, and the grated daikon radish that is spread over the pot is thought to resemble snow. Perhaps I never heard of it because there was so much real snow in the mountains where I lived, no one wanted to see it on their dinner plate. I realize I am committing serious seasonal travesty by writing a post that includes both cherry blossoms and snow viewing (a very un-Japanese thing to do), but hey, it’s been a chilly spring here in San Francisco.



Nabes are fairly flexible dishes, there are many things you can add. I put in what I had in the house and will list that here, along with other ingredients that would be appropriate. I made mine in a clay nabe pot, but you really can use a saucepot and then serve it into bowls. Just make sure it has a lid that fits well. For more about nabe cooking, see here.

1 block tofu (I used yakidofu, the grilled kind of tofu, but regular firm tofu would be fine)
1/2 Napa cabbage (hakusai), cut across into 1/2 inch strips
2-3 negi or leek, cut on the bias into 1/2 inch pieces
6 mushrooms (I used king trumpets, but shitake or enoki would work)
1 large daikon, grated on the small perforated side of a grater
6 tbs ponzu dipping sauce—if you can get fresh yuzu, use the juice mixed with soy sauce, otherwise ponzu is good. This can be bought in a Japanese market, or made by mixing 1 tbs lemon juice, 2 tbs rice vinegar, 5 tbs soy sauce, and 5 tbs dashi soup stock (made from bonito flakes and kelp).
The above ingredients should serve 2

Additional ingredients, as desired:
Fish—a white fish, like cod
Pork or beef sliced paper thin (often marked as Shabu Shabu or Sukiyaki meat in Japanese markets)
Chicken pieces (should be mostly cooked in another pot and added to the nabe for finishing)
Shungiku (kiku)—edible chrysanthemum leaves
Various mushrooms—shitake, enoki, etc.

Arrange the vegetables and meat, as desired, into a nabe pot, electrical pot, or soup pot. Cover with grated daikon so that there is a medium thick layer of daikon over the entire pot (see Chika’s photo for an example). Slowly heat until the daikon has released it’s liquid and the pot is bubbling merrily away. Once the meat is cooked and the vegetables and tofu warmed through (10-15 minutes), remove from the heat and serve with ponzu (or fresh yuzu juice and soy sauce, if you’re lucky enough to have it) drizzled over the top. A bowl of hot rice and a cold beer would not be amiss here.

And thanks to Chika for introducing me to this delicious dish!

*The only better way to experience cherry blossoms, I believe, is to lie under the tree with the petals floating down on you, preferably with someone you really like. If you’re in San Francisco, I recommend the cherry trees near Elk Glen Lake in GG Park. But bring something waterproof to lie on, the grass can be pretty damp.