Last weekend was a three-day holiday, so we decided to get away in our Will Cypha and put its new tires to the test. Tristy's parents-in-law run a minshuku B&B on the west coast of Japan's rugged Fukui province, less than 200 km away from us, so we decided to make a trip out there. Unfortunately, it turned out that the crab (and therefore tourist) season had just ended (the season for fishing crab off the local coast runs Nov-Feb) and the minshuku was closed for business, but by coincidence Tristy was planning to go up the same weekend and twisted her mother-in-law's arm to let us come, too.
YK was very excited. He'd never been to Fukui and was salivating at the thought of all the fresh seafood which would undoubtedly come his way.
He wasn't disappointed. Our hosts were incredibly generous, preparing a huge feast the night we arrived of sashimi (crab, buri, squid, sweet shrimp), mounds of large and small cooked crab (male and female), as well as grilled sole, pickled fish and fish roe. One of the chief families in Echizen Town, they all (from great-grandmother, to cousins, nephews and uncles) play some kind of role in the seafood industry. Some are fishermen, others are fish packers and processors, supplying sashimi and cooked seafood to their regulars, supermarkets and restaurants in the prefecture and even setting up shop across in Shandong, China, with a fish-processing unit that sends seafood back to consumers in Japan. The family business has been running thirty years or more and is clearly a way of life. As with so many successful family-run enterprises, however, the question of succession has arisen.
Tristy's parents-in-law have three children, the eldest of whom is Tristy's husband, but none seem interested in taking on the business. This question seems to weigh on the minds of the family elders in a fishing town where tradition is not taken lightly. There's even a rule which says that properties built on reclaimed land can only be owned by second sons (because first sons inherit).
Echizen Town is a working crab town, a narrow strip of densely-packed wood and brick houses, restaurants and ryokan sandwiched between the billowing ocean and the cedar-covered mountains, with the occasional concrete onsen and the Crab Museum, built for the tourists.
Echizen City, not too far away, is a conglomerate of small towns which came together to reinforce the Echizen brand, famous for yaki (pottery), washi (paper) and knives, as well as crab. The Washi no Sato-dori ('a promenade symbolizing Imadate-cho's traditional washi-making industry'), built relatively recently, features a typical-looking washi-maker's house where professionals still produce hand-made paper for sale and a 'Papyrus Kan' where children can have a go at making their own paper. In the fading light of a stormy day, it encapsulated all that is lovely about the Japanese aesthetic. Rain dripped from wooden eaves, gravel glistened, and the last washi-maker respectfully pulled the heavy, sliding wooden doors closed and hurried up the path with a nod, her apron flapping. Tristy is a tad cynical and would no doubt laugh and call me sentimental. She dismisses such stuff as tourist nonsense. But I liked it.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Saturday, March 13, 2010
How do I ignore my MIL?
By far the most interesting discussion this week on the 'Married in Japan' (Yahoo! group) postings has been on the subject of the Japanese MIL (mother-in-law). Started by a young mum who is being driven potty by her live-in in-laws, her rant has generated dozens of posts, offering sympathy, commiseration and advice from deep in the trenches.
It seems Japanese MILs share certain characteristics, chief among them being an unwillingness to accept non-Japanese ways of caring for baby and an obsession with gaijin hygiene, or lack thereof. More than one DIL mentioned how she'd been instructed by her MIL not to wash her underwear with the family's laundry, or had been relegated to being the last person in the house to use the o-furo bath water each night.
The bath struck a chord with me. Not that I live with MIL or have been asked to reuse the bath water of someone else. But I remember the first time I went for a bath with my MIL at the onsen, it scandalized my mother and sisters back in England. How could I possibly have appeared naked in front of my MIL??? I had taken a giant step beyond the pail of civilized behaviour, from which they have yet to recover. Of course I insisted that in Japan it was common as anything to bath with your relatives and that no-one stared at anyone else's bodies, but they didn't believe that. It did take something to overcome my ingrained shyness and expose myself like that, but it was either bite on the bullet or forego the pleasure of the onsen and I figured the sooner I got used to it, the better. Ironically it was the first and only time my MIL suggested we use the onsen together. So maybe she felt as uncomfortable as I did, after all?
Even in households where DIL and MIL get along, it seems things can turn quickly sour after the arrival of a baby. MIL wants to wrap baby in layers and layers in spite of the heat, MIL wants to use kimono-style onesies, MIL is suspicious that those boobs can produce enough good milk for baby. One post counselled patience in the face of extreme provocation. The correct response to unwelcome advice, downright criticism or blatant wrong-headedness was a calm and collected 'Wakarimashita. I understand.' If only I could have taken that sensible advice on board!
As far as me and MIL go, the score is 1-1. I made her cry once, and she made he bawl once. I made her cry when I blew up at her for doing my washing (am I wrong to believe I should have the right to wash my own undies?). She made me cry when I came back from a weekend trip to find she'd cut chibbi-chan some very short bangs. My child looked like someone else. I erupted into a major tantrum, making chibbi-chan cry too, and refused to eat dinner or have anything to do with my in-laws or YK (who had been present at the time of the calamity) that night.
After that debacle, I decided I would show more restraint. I would accept that I was now part of MIL's family and that meant that homeland security on certain boundaries would occasionally be breached. Likewise, I don't think MIL will attempt another hairdressing adventure in the near future. These days she buys chibbi-chan mountains of hair grips and bands to keep her hair from poking in her eyes as the bangs grow out. I know it bothers them, but I'm Mum!
It seems Japanese MILs share certain characteristics, chief among them being an unwillingness to accept non-Japanese ways of caring for baby and an obsession with gaijin hygiene, or lack thereof. More than one DIL mentioned how she'd been instructed by her MIL not to wash her underwear with the family's laundry, or had been relegated to being the last person in the house to use the o-furo bath water each night.
The bath struck a chord with me. Not that I live with MIL or have been asked to reuse the bath water of someone else. But I remember the first time I went for a bath with my MIL at the onsen, it scandalized my mother and sisters back in England. How could I possibly have appeared naked in front of my MIL??? I had taken a giant step beyond the pail of civilized behaviour, from which they have yet to recover. Of course I insisted that in Japan it was common as anything to bath with your relatives and that no-one stared at anyone else's bodies, but they didn't believe that. It did take something to overcome my ingrained shyness and expose myself like that, but it was either bite on the bullet or forego the pleasure of the onsen and I figured the sooner I got used to it, the better. Ironically it was the first and only time my MIL suggested we use the onsen together. So maybe she felt as uncomfortable as I did, after all?
Even in households where DIL and MIL get along, it seems things can turn quickly sour after the arrival of a baby. MIL wants to wrap baby in layers and layers in spite of the heat, MIL wants to use kimono-style onesies, MIL is suspicious that those boobs can produce enough good milk for baby. One post counselled patience in the face of extreme provocation. The correct response to unwelcome advice, downright criticism or blatant wrong-headedness was a calm and collected 'Wakarimashita. I understand.' If only I could have taken that sensible advice on board!
As far as me and MIL go, the score is 1-1. I made her cry once, and she made he bawl once. I made her cry when I blew up at her for doing my washing (am I wrong to believe I should have the right to wash my own undies?). She made me cry when I came back from a weekend trip to find she'd cut chibbi-chan some very short bangs. My child looked like someone else. I erupted into a major tantrum, making chibbi-chan cry too, and refused to eat dinner or have anything to do with my in-laws or YK (who had been present at the time of the calamity) that night.
After that debacle, I decided I would show more restraint. I would accept that I was now part of MIL's family and that meant that homeland security on certain boundaries would occasionally be breached. Likewise, I don't think MIL will attempt another hairdressing adventure in the near future. These days she buys chibbi-chan mountains of hair grips and bands to keep her hair from poking in her eyes as the bangs grow out. I know it bothers them, but I'm Mum!
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
I've found a guru!
'Tristy' (not her real name) has been in Japan since high school - an uninterrupted fifteen years plus - and considers herself more at home in Japan that Iowa, where she has few surviving relatives. She is a fluent Japanese speaker, has Japanese GPS and is on the PTA at her son's kindergarten.
It was Tristy who warned me to get my act together and find a kindergarten for chibbi-chan before it was too late, and that I should expect to have to hand-sew a smock and bento box bag to sufficiently demonstrate mother love. 'And make sure the food you put in the bento looks nice,' she said deliberately. 'Because if other moms happen to be around doing PTA activities and see a kid with a bad bento, they might not let their kids come to playdates with your kid, because obviously the mother doesn't care enough and the home might be dirty.'
Tristy is acting as my unofficial mentor, guide and all-round guru on Japan wifedom. It helps that we have a few things in common - we're both married to Japanese men (I found her through the Yahoo! groups 'Married in Japan'), we both have young children and we both care about organic food.
One rainy day, to take advantage of the 'rainy day' prices (10% discount), Tristy drove us to the Farmer's Market on the other side of town where we browsed meat, vegetables and fruit which were organic in all but labelling (nothing is in English - Tristy translated the hand-written Japanese).
She explained that here, 'organic' is like a patented brand which farmers have to pay to use, so many don't bother. We found free-range eggs, free-range growth-hormone-free pork and pesticide-free root vegetables, tomatoes, strawberries and tangerines all grown here.
Organic milk is still proving elusive. Tristy gets hers from a home-delivery company called Radish Boya each week, along with a selection of seasonal organic vegetables. The only problem is that sometimes she gets a whole bunch of something she doesn't recognize which turns out to be for a garnish. But they always include a recipe so you know how to cook it. In Japanese, of course.
For now, I think I'll keep looking. I want to check out what Tristy's borrowed Japanese guidebook notes is the 'largest organic supermarket in Japan.' Once again, Tristy is smoothing my way for me. She's just sold me her old Will Cypher.
It was Tristy who warned me to get my act together and find a kindergarten for chibbi-chan before it was too late, and that I should expect to have to hand-sew a smock and bento box bag to sufficiently demonstrate mother love. 'And make sure the food you put in the bento looks nice,' she said deliberately. 'Because if other moms happen to be around doing PTA activities and see a kid with a bad bento, they might not let their kids come to playdates with your kid, because obviously the mother doesn't care enough and the home might be dirty.'
Tristy is acting as my unofficial mentor, guide and all-round guru on Japan wifedom. It helps that we have a few things in common - we're both married to Japanese men (I found her through the Yahoo! groups 'Married in Japan'), we both have young children and we both care about organic food.
One rainy day, to take advantage of the 'rainy day' prices (10% discount), Tristy drove us to the Farmer's Market on the other side of town where we browsed meat, vegetables and fruit which were organic in all but labelling (nothing is in English - Tristy translated the hand-written Japanese).
She explained that here, 'organic' is like a patented brand which farmers have to pay to use, so many don't bother. We found free-range eggs, free-range growth-hormone-free pork and pesticide-free root vegetables, tomatoes, strawberries and tangerines all grown here.
Organic milk is still proving elusive. Tristy gets hers from a home-delivery company called Radish Boya each week, along with a selection of seasonal organic vegetables. The only problem is that sometimes she gets a whole bunch of something she doesn't recognize which turns out to be for a garnish. But they always include a recipe so you know how to cook it. In Japanese, of course.
For now, I think I'll keep looking. I want to check out what Tristy's borrowed Japanese guidebook notes is the 'largest organic supermarket in Japan.' Once again, Tristy is smoothing my way for me. She's just sold me her old Will Cypher.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
We're back!
Apologies for my absence the past few weeks. I took chibbi-chan to Beijing for the Chinese New Year and it seems the Chinese authorities take a dim view of blogger.com (and youtube.com too for that matter) so I was unable to post from there. But here I am, back again in Japan and looking forward to resume posting very soon.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
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 ...
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 ...
Sunday, January 31, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, January 25, 2010
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 ...
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 ...
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