Life in the Shataku

The Shataku (literally 'company house') where we're living, looks a lot like a nondescript concrete block from the outside. It's already thirty years old (ancient by modern Japanese standards) and it isn't lovely. Inside, too, it's showing it's age. The o-furo bath has to be hand-cranked to light the gas and the storage in the tatami rooms consists of traditional o-shiire, a sliding door behind which lies a cavernous space separated by a deep shelf, suggesting a time when everyone rolled up their futon neatly each morning and packed it away next to clothes cut from soft, foldable fabrics which were stacked neatly on top of each other.
The kitchen screams 'galley' and we've had to buy Japanese furntiture to fit - a kitchen dresser for our crockery, a microwave oven that can fit above the rice-saver. There's just room to squeeze the three-part trash can next to the fridge. I think it's the first kitchen I've ever stepped foot in that has cupboards under the kitchen floor.
The trash can isn't working. Here, the rule is you have to separate trash into up to eleven varieties. So we're short eight trash cans. For the moment, we stick it out on the balcony with the washing. It won't offend anyone opposite (we overlook a vast cemetery), but we do have to watch the crows who recognise the official, red 'burnable refuse' bags.
In other respects, shataku life is rather pleasant. You see your neighbors often. Kids play together downstairs in the yard/car park area. Friends call by to introduce their new babies. Acquaintances exchange gossip in the elevator. Because most of us have recently returned from assignments overseas, we realize the value of sharing information which could be helpful to newcomers. I've discovered which day is 'market day' at my local Jusco (when I can buy produce discounted to Y98 - less than a dollar for wild yellow-tail fillets or a head for grilling), where to find the local (and only) pediatrician, how many 3-yr olds are available for playdates in the building, who teaches Japanese.
My home economics guru upstairs has offered to teach me how to make kimchi on Tuesday. She's also advising me on my quest to find organic food, although she has warned me not to get my hopes up. Apparently less than 0.1% of Japanese produce is organic. So far at my three local supermarkets (all within walking distance as I don't yet have a car), I've spotted organic tofu (made from imported Chinese beans), organic black sesame seeds and 'pesticide-free' milk. I'm buying 'Tasmanian' beef which I hope is grass-fed. But what I really want is a Farmer's Market where I can find fresh, local, organic produce. And cheese. Big, huge chunks of the stuff. The search continues ...

Hakurikiko, Churikiko and Kyorikiko - a Tale a 3 Flours

Last year when January came around, we celebrated chibbi-chan's birthday with cup cakes in the park and this year, in spite of the move and all the upheaval of leaving friends and little playmates behind in sunny California I was determined my little one would have a chocolate birthday cake if nothing else. To this end, I set off to Frante and bought my baking supplies -flour, cocoa, icing sugar, sugar, eggs, milk and margarine. My usual modus operandi when I can't find something is to seize on the nearest customer with, 'Ano ... sumimasen ...hakurikiko arimasu ka?' (Excuse me, is there self-raising flour?) It's probably inaccurate but it works every time and the poor customer will search the aisle for the product or a clerk to come help. Only this time, customer and clerk seemed unsure what it was I really wanted. Did I want to make cookies or sponge cake, melon pan or brioche, udon or bread? Sponge cake, I assured them. I just wanted the flour, no other added ingredients and they handed me a bag of white dust. And so I duly went home, mixed my chocolate cake and put it in the oven. When it came out it was rock hard. I didn't have my recipe books with me or my scales (still buried deep in the hold of a ship out at sea), so I wondered if I'd got the quantities wrong. I've never been a good cake baker but this sponge rated 1/10, it's only redeeming feature an edible chewiness on the inside. Not even a thick frosting could remedy this disaster. There was no way I was going to celebrate being 3 years old with this monster.
I called my neighbour upstairs, who had majored in Home Economics and could give me a recipe over the phone. She asked me if I had an electric whisk. I did, but ten minutes later she was at my door offering to beat my sponge for me. I wasn't going to say no. The Japanese way seems to be to beat the egg and sugar together into a froth of ecstasy until it's a foaming yellow cream tripled in size, before adding the flour and cocoa. Thirty minutes later and the cake was in the oven and I was looking forward to seeing the miracle of a beautifully risen sponge. But when the timer dinged and I opened the oven, my heart sank. This effort, in spite of the trouble which had been taken on its behalf by two pairs of hands, was even worse than the first. But I'd run out of time. And so with the help of a lot of whipped cream, chocolate icing, strawberries and sugar decorations and a fairy cake topper I cobbled something together which resembled a cake smashed with a mallet which more of less was what it was. I took a sampler to my neighbor upstairs, who wondered if there'd been too much flour added to the mix.
Chibbi-chan, mother-in-law and YK ate valiantly, but I was peeved. I wanted to solve the great cake mystery - was the oven too hot? Was the mixture too stiff? Had my neighbour overwhipped the eggs?
A few days later, mother-in-law solved the crime. I'd used the wrong flour she said, pointing to the label on the bag. I'd bought kyorikiko, not hakurikiko. Kyorikiko was for making noodles and bread. Hakurikiko was for making cakes, the equivalent I found, to self-raising/self-rising flour. My Home Economics neighbour filled in the details. Hakurikiko was the flour with the lowest gluten content, without bicarbonate of soda or salt. I would need to add bicarb to get things to rise. Churikiko was the equivalent of all-purpose flour (US) or plain (UK) flour, I could use that for cookies, she said. Kyorikiko has the highest gluten content.
Since my birthday cake debacle, I have successfully made everyone's favourite cheesecake, which tastes lighter and fluffier with churikiko. This morning I earned the compliment 'You made a nice apple pancake' from chibbi-chan (vocal appreciation of my cooking is a very recent development and much treasured).
The flour mixture has a glossier look and stickier feel to it than what I'm used to, but I think that's a small price to pay for the honest compliment of a 3-yr old.

We Have a Washlet!

Right at the very top of YK's list of things to buy for our newly-rented dorm apartment was a washlet (electronic toilet seat). He told me it was to keep your bum warm when you venture to the loo in the freezing middle of the night but it does so much more than that. Father-in-law installed it but wasn't prepared to explain the purpose of the button featuring a woman's face and center part. Chibbi-chan thought it was for washing hair. Not far off. It's for washing front instead of back (achieved with the press of another button, this time with the unmistakable image of a fat bum).
It took me several days to work up the courage to press all the buttons (chibbi-chan followed me in each time with a hopeful look on her face), but now I'm a total convert. Forget the hot water pot that sings happy birthday when the temperature hits 100 degrees, or the fridge that reminds you to close it, or the rice cooker that chirrups when the rice is done. Washlet is king. Why bother going to the trouble of taking a shower after sex when you can hop on the loo and get cleaned up in next to no time. Now, if only they could add a blow-dry button ...

We've arrived

Last time I was in Japan five years ago, my stint lasted all of three months. This time, I hope I can do better. But I still remember quite distinctly a few notable experiences I had back then, involving Japanese men, that left an indelible impression. One time we had run into a kissaten to get out of the rain and found the place empty except for the owner - a wiry guy in his late fifties with bohemian hair. I ordered coffee and when it came, I asked if he could heat up the milk on the side. So I'm fussy. I was told in no uncertain terms that hot milk belonged to a different species of coffee altogether and that I had committed something immoral on the scale of miscegenation by mixing and matching. YK was then bombasted with a tirade - how he ought to know better than allowing his wife to be so shameless, that he should have informed me of my rights prior to entering the establishment and that, ultimately, I should know that this was not how things are done in Japan. Lesson learned!
A week later, YK was unfortunately witness to another embarrassing episode by this 'indoor person' when I attempted to gain entry to the local sports club as his spouse. YK insisted that I could use the facilities as his spouse under the terms of his associate membership. The manager, a guy in his fifties preserved in tobacco, insisted quietly but firmly that I could not. The reason was never made clear except for the glaringly obvious fact that I was a gaijin and gaijins, by default, were never married to salarimen who used his sports facility. In fact, as far as I knew, this hallowed ground had never been occupied by a gaijin before. It was sacrosanct Japanese turf. Finally a gracious subordinate (female), stepped in and put an end to all the nonsense and I proceeded with my swim in peace, apart from getting tangled up with the lane walkers, but that's another story.
Suffice to say, I am hoping things will be better this time around. The sports club manager is still there and this time he didn't refuse me entry. Even when chibi-chan pulled out all the neatly arranged swimming goggles from the display case. Things are looking up!