Fireworks

“…warui…” without thinking I comprehend. “Wrong” something is wrong. We are on a plane to Frankfurt, Germany. I am over hearing the woman in front of me talking to the flight attendant in Japanese. She is talking about the person next to her.

“Dozo…….wasuremono”- {Please go ahead, I have forgotten something}.  I am approaching the check out line at the Fresta, my local grocery store. A small elderly lady motions me to go ahead as she speaks, the meaning of her Japanese effortlessly synthesizes in my brain.

“Doko ni kimasuka? {Where are you from?}.  The 7-11 clerk has a kind face. She is ringing up all of her current inventory of Hichew candy for me. I know I have been asked this question many times, but could not make out the words. Today they all connected like Lego blocks building a simple form.

Most of the time I only understand about twenty percent of what is being asked. Through context clues I hobble together conversations. This is about two or three words per sentence. Recently I have been experiencing instantaneous comprehension.  This usually happens in familiar circumstances grocery store, yubinkyoku (post office), standing on the corner waiting for the light to change. I now understand that the lady inside the elevator is saying please shut the door. Or on the amstram she reminds me to please be careful.

How I came to remember, “please be careful” is a good example of what I am talking about. It was a beautiful, sunny, late autumnal day in November, we are headed to church. The sidewalks are deserted. Rich is zooming down the street. Some street crossings have signals and some do not. He is zig zagging and standing on his pedals. I am coming up behind him pausing at each corner, for every corner is a blind corner. The train rumbles above our head as we go under the train’s overpass and that is when I see Rich run a red light and almost get hit by a car. I yell “dame!” [Which means ‘bad’ in Japanese] as I screech to a stop. A small elderly lady is standing patiently for the light. She turns and with a smile says, “Abenai desu ne”. Its meaning, “dangerous isn’t it” instantly known. Little, celebratory fireworks go off in my head. “So ne” {yes indeed} I reply. She looks at me and smiles. Ping pong. The light has turned green. As I struggle to get my pedal she says “Kiyostukite kudasai” (please be careful). More fireworks ignite as I catch up to my husband. After that I hear ‘kiyostukite kudasai’ on the train, I read it on the tram doors, I hear moms’ yelling it to their kids.

Eves dropping is very useful to me. Once standing on the corner I overheard a girlfriend say to anther “ii otenki desu ne” {isn’t it nice weather}. How could I have forgotten that phrase?! Now I use it whenever I can. It’s my response to any native that bravely smiles back at me in public.  We make eye contact, we simultaneously smile and then I say “ii otenki desu ne?” They bow in agreement and “so desu ne”. This simple phrase is priceless because it generate an authentic smile, a respectful bow, a conversation.

Sometimes the response is in rapid, complicated Japanese. I have good pronunciation because of my high school experience. Occasionally they assume my language is advanced. It is so humiliating to stand there and let the incomprehensible language wash over me as a wave. When the speaker stops I only have a one-word response. “Wakarimasen.” {I don’t understand.} Then it is their turn to look deflated.

The truth is you can’t get good speaking a language studying a book or taking a class. You get good at speaking by conversing with the natives.  My cooking class is invaluable to my language development. I am immersed in Japanese with no subtitles for six hours. Only when it is crucial for my understanding, like measuring ingredients, do I get English. (Note: salt and sugar look exactly the same and used in similar quantities in Japanese cooking). Otherwise it is piecemeal sentences and Japanese charades. I am happy to report that all of the cooking teachers are now interacting with me. Maeda sensei will come up and speak to me as if I am Japanese. There is no English at all. My brain searches frantically for some clue to what she is saying, some familiar syllable or sound to help me remember how I am suppose to cut this lotus root. It is significant progress that she feels comfortable enough to talk to me. It doesn’t matter that I don’t understand a word she says.

The Japanese language has word markers. These markers tell the listener and speaker the function of the word. There is no direct correlation in English. The subject gets ga after it, the topic marker is wa. Setting is de, but the direct place, time, and person marker is ni. Direct objects get o. Possession is signaled by no. The order of these chunks is “non demo ii” {any way is good}. The verb is always at the very end. I love it when my teacher says, “Please memorize this”. Memorizing isn’t the problem, remembering it in the heat of the moment, is the problem. Being immersed in six hours of Japanese in a setting with a specific context is helping me develop an intuitive sense to these markers. I am picking out more and more words and hearing these markers. Fireworks are going off more frequent.

The other day I was hanging out with two and three year olds. “Konnichi wa, genki desu ka?” [Hello, how are you today?] I say. Their response is clear, crisp and a rapid stream. I look to my friend, Rie san for help. She tells them I can only speak a little. A little boy brings me some sticks. Ichi, ni, san, yon, go, roku, nana, hachi, ku, ju. We count them together over and over. He puts them in one long line, then bunches of five. He puts them in my hand and I then put them in his. Each time counting in Japanese. At first he is standing by me, then leans in, and finally he climbs into my lap. When our time is up, we put our sticks in a nice pile in the sun. With bright, dark eyes looking right into my heart, he asks me when I will be back. We hug, luckily that requires no translation.

Space

“If you would change gears it would be easier!” my husband calls over his shoulder as he rides along. If I knew how to do that I might agree but right now I am just trying not to fall off or run into this nice old Japanese man. He is bent over and using a cane so he would definitely be the victim. Rich weaves in and out of pedestrians, other bikers, mothers pushing strollers. He stands on his pedals. It looks so graceful it could be a form of dance. I want to throw up.

“I try to tell you but you just won’t listen.” Not only my ears burn at these words but my heart hurts. As a teacher how many times have I thought this, I’m sure it has slipped out also. What Rich doesn’t understand, is that this is not about listening, this is about doing. I need to ride my bike. I need space riding my bike.

I can’t think about gears when I am still working on not running into pedestrians, other bikes or …………

WHAM! Just like that I crumple between a gate and my heavy housewife bike. I don’t feel any pain because my face is on fire. I know without looking that there are many people trying not to look at the big foreign woman untangling her bike from the path gates. Luckily the path is on the river and I look at the birds and the fishermen as a distraction from my reality. Rich and I ride this route on the weekends. Each time I would come to these gates that were made to slow down bike riders, I would hear my brother’s voice in my head. He had coached me on how to ski in between the trees. “You look at the space, not the trees”. Today I was by myself and I had forgotten these words as I entered.

I approach the second set, an old lady riding a trike with a little wagon cuts ahead of me and weaves elegantly through them. My heart is racing. WHAM!! My pedal catches the second gate as I pass. This hurls me around; making a horrible noise in the process. My beautiful new bike now has a scratch on it. I look up and the old lady disappears on the other side of the bridge. I bet she is chuckling to herself I think. My heart isn’t racing anymore, just pounding like Taiko drummers.

The third crash is totally different. I had had to get off the path, cross a very busy street and was now finding the path again. Men dressed in gray are working on the very entrance I am looking for. It is marked by a beautiful planter and pyramid shaped cement that also discourages bikers from speeding. As I try to maneuver around the men and make the turn I just know I am going to hit the planter. I do. WHAM! This time the impact causes me to fall off my bike. Now in Japanese culture, when someone looses face, like I just did, the community does not contribute to it by acknowledging it. So luckily I don’t hear laughing. They have provided much needed space.

Sometimes learning is clumsy, messy and downright painful. I realize now I went through this doing boot camp. The entire experience was foreign. I struggled until the current teacher. He provided me the space I needed to become proficient. His voice also whispers in my ear when I ride the rivers of Hiroshima. “No one is looking at you.” There is no algorithm to learning how to ride a bike or a foreign language. We want to help the next person avoid the pain so we think “telling” them the secret, the short cut, the algorithm, will spare them. I don’t think there are any shortcuts. I think that sometimes the process of learning something is arduous. There in lies the rub.

They sound simple. Ride a bike. Speak Japanese. Geometry. But this is what happens after a million bits of information meld together and become one fluid intuitive thought. What isn’t said is you have to ride it in and around obstacles. You have to learn three abstract scripts. You have to understand you are measuring the area inside or outside a figure.

I am taking a class about teaching geometry and measurement. One activity we did took spaghetti noodles, I had chopsticks, and randomly laid them on the table, looking at where they intersect and what happens when we move one up or down. Over skype I hear the professor say, “look at the space, not the boundaries”. A light goes off in my head. My issues with riding a bike are about space. I am looking at the boundaries. So on the way to church, we always ride our bike to church, I shift my thinking to look for spaces to go through. I had been scanning for the obstacles.

Our Japanese is going along a similar track. It’s messy and awkward. It’s embarrassing and inefficient. I “learn” something in my lesson and then try to use it in my daily life. The real learning is happening out in the world as I stumble along. The Japanese language uses markers that my textbook calls particles. Due to the fact that the subject is usually implied {its that humble thing}, and the verb is at the end, all the who, what, where is in the middle. So it is a way to make clear what the hell you are talking about this all gets its own syllable that indicates its position. They are wa, ga, de, ni, o. The problem is we don’t use markers in English. Yes my teacher uses the English word to label it, but that isn’t helpful because language is communicating thinking and we don’t think the same way.

It’s comical. Sensei will say “In Japanese there are u-verbs, r-verbs and irregular verbs. This is what that means blah, blah, blah. Please study this so you will remember.” It’s like Rich yelling over his shoulder at me while I am trying to just stay on the bike. When I am at the Yubinkyoku (post office), in my head I am not regurgitating language lesson 4. I wish it were that simple. But instead I piece together whatever jumps into my head along with facial expressions, guttural noises and hand gestures to make myself understood while mailing packages back home.

Rich is finding this out also. He struggled but mastered the female Japanese script Hiragana. Hiragana is usually mixed with Chinese kanji so sounding it out doesn’t really help us. Katakana is the male Japanese script. It is everywhere and it is entire words. The reason this is that all foreign-mostly English words-are written in katakana. And they are everywhere-advertisements, signs, posters, and labels. So as he sounds out a word, ku-ri-su-ma-su-kurisumasu-Christmas! He gets so excited. Katakana is like a puzzle he can figure out. But it takes time to remember the characters, sound them out, and then put them together. You don’t do it while you are driving on the Sanyo Expressway. You do it on the train ride to downtown. The other day I looked up and Ushita Station popped into my head. I realized I am learning to read!

The reverse happens to our Japanese friends trying to speak English. Blog is said “barogu”. They have to learn to blend their sounds and not add a vowel at the end. They don’t have pronouns in their language so get ours mixed up. You have no idea what can get misunderstood when not saying consistent pronouns. I walk the river on Mondays with my neighbor, Etsuko san. We have developed way of speaking that helps us both. She puts in the English words she knows but adds the Japanese particles automatically. What this does is has me hear what English would sound like in Japanese grammar. For example, she would say, “In Idaho de …… your mother ni ……. potato o”. I in turn help her with her pronunciation and give her a native speaker. Etsuko san also reflects back my Japanese only correctly and then I say it again. I do the same for her. This sounds tedious and awful, but the fact is we can’t have an in depth conversation anyway. And this way provides a lot of laughs and we share our culture and language. And get a great hour walk together.

Today I got to babysit my friend Aubrie. She is almost three and although I have hung out at her house, she is not use to me. Due to a horrible snowstorm her mother is retrieving grandma from the airport by train. It will take all day. In my sunny apartment, she busies herself with a bucket of blocks (early Christmas present from me), washcloths, wooden spoons and Kleenexes. I am quiet. She stops and looks out the window. She puts the blocks under a washcloth and then pulls it off with a laugh. We line up cushions and play train. We make trains out of the fat blocks, and the skinny blocks, and the big blocks. It looks like Hiroshima station with all those trains. We have space.

Quiet is space.

Learning requires quiet. Learners need space to think. This is in the form of quiet-not interrupting-not telling. Many times when Etsuko san is trying to speak I just wait. She has the word, its inside her, she needs quiet to bring it forth. She does the same for me. Rich and I go around Hiroshima on our bikes every weekend. I just ride. My professors create experiences that allow me to struggle with geometric concepts in authentic ways. Consequently my new understandings are foundational. When you are listening to someone you can’t process and think your own thoughts.

Safety is space.

It is no fun to learn to ride a bike as an adult amongst a population that has been on a bike since birth. I know the neighborhood kids can’t figure out what the big deal is as I squeal to stop. The perfectionist expectation of the Japanese culture inhibits them from speaking English. You are expected to study hard and then be excellent at whatever it is. The river is a great place to be invisible and not overheard. Rich’s colleagues give him a “useful word” of the day. This encourages him to use it as much as he can. My geometry class comprises of teachers who teach kindergarten up to high school. Regardless everyone is respected at their level of math understanding. It is safe to show you don’t understand.

Time is space.

Learning takes time. Rich and I realize how much time we use trying to speak Japanese. If the counter has a long line, we pay and leave. But if the store is not busy we will use much more Japanese. Riding weekly, just a short distance has allowed my confidence to grow. The balance of readings, group work and contextual problems provide repeated exposure to geometry understandings. These concepts were being visited one way or another but in different ways. I knew something was happening when one day Rich came in with the mail. “I don’t know what this is, but it looks important.” I looked at it. The number caught my eye. 16 m³ . Whatever it was came in cubes. Water! Could this be the water bill? Then I saw the kanji character for water. All that thinking about something new had integrated itself.

Many times I wonder how I got here. Maybe I needed space.

I would like to dedicate this blog post to the group of people instrumental in my ability to finish the MCTE program through Boise State and the Boise School District. Elisa Pharris and group Four graciously volunteered and facilitates my participation.   Professors Dr. Brendefur and Dr. Carney never intended to have an online class. They generously have allowed me to continue regardless of the extra time and consideration I have required. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

These are the dreaded path entrances. These are the gates.   One day we biked on Etajima-Cycle Island

It All Started With Pumpkin Pie Day Two

As I have said this started with Emi-san wanting Thanksgiving. I have met Kaori-san several times and Emi-san really wants her to experience Thanksgiving. It made me laugh to think that even though I would eat Thanksgiving twice, I would not eat it on Thanksgiving Day in Idaho. This dinner has much higher expectations because Emi-san has lived in the states and has memories of wonderful Thanksgivings. Memories are something you don’t want to compete with. I did not sleep deeply that night, problem solving in my sleep. I haven’t done that since teaching. Yes, here is a little secret, teachers don’t sleep well, because we practice in our sleep.

I have a few problems to work out. My microwave doesn’t work well. It had transformed sweet potatoes into card stock. So zapping is not an option. I have quite a bit of food from the day before. My three burners, two pots and two skillets will have to do. In talking to mom, she had encouraged me to find some “turkey herbs” to put on the chicken. At the Fresta, my local grocery store, I found thyme and ‘herb mix’. I have no more gravy packets so will stretch what I have. The sweet potatoes will be boiled; one more thing to cook on a burner.

Rich has an hour drive so he leaves right at 6:30 am every day. My friends will be here around 11:30 so I had five hours to get everything ready. It seems like plenty of time. I don’t have to walk to the station and back. I end up needing every moment. I   put the the sweet potatoes on to boil, get out the mashed potatoes, and put the pieces of baked chicken from Costco into a skillet. I sprinkle them with the herbs, add a little water, put on a lid and the low heat. All three burners are busy. The gravy simmers on the back; potato water being the stretching agent. The mashed taters, as my dad would call them, became creamier today as I hand fold in more butter and milk. By now the sweet potatoes are drained and waiting for their mashing. I add a touch of maple syrup instead of milk. The mashing tool is my wooden spatula made from a hard wood tree in Boise. On the farm we ate spuds every day. Only on Thanksgiving were they mashed, more evidence of the significance of the day, then and now.

I did need to go to my local bakery. I had to find something pumpkin. My neighbor told me that our bakery is the best in town and the chef has a cooking show. So right at 10 am I am waiting for the doors to open. Things here do not open until 9 or after. It is one of the many things I have had to adjust to. I am behind three other customers. The woman in front of me has two boys about two and four. The display case is full of colorful pastries. Without thinking I say to him “Oishii so!” Immediately his brother high tails it behind his mom’s legs. His mom bows and smiles and then tells him in Japanese to say hello in English. He does. I respond in Japanese. “Sumimasen” It is her turn to order and our potential conversation is killed. When it is my turn I find that they have three pumpkin-hobocha-custdards. When I look at my watch, it is 10:30. It was smart to start cooking so early. Scurrying up the four flights of stairs, I review the list in my head. Without Lulu, I set the table myself. Again cranberries, fruit salad, a relish plate, bread and butter, salt and pepper dress the table. Emi-san has confessed that she doesn’t have flatware at her house. So I know this table will feel special even though she has been to America.

They arrive on the dot. Their entrance is no less noisy, just more English. Emi-san can’t believe how good it smells. As I take the lid off the poultry, it smells wonderfully Thanksgivingish. Herbs were a great suggestion from a master cook. Kaori-san comes bearing beautiful, exotic Japanese desserts. Today’s conversation is different. Emi translates between Kaori-san and myself. She vacillates between being a part of the conversation and interpreting it. I can only imagine what that feels like. With the three of us, it is a little quiet. As the ladies say “Itedakimasu”, and Emi-san starts passing the food, I keep quiet. She does the teaching today, telling her friend what each thing is and what to do with it in Japanese. She also calls it “gurebi sasu”. Emi’s voice is full of pride and nostalgia. When Emi-san hands Kaori-san the fruit salad, she refuses it and says in Japanese, “I will eat the dessert later.” So that is why the girls yesterday didn’t eat the fruit salad until last, they thought it was dessert.

Myself, Kaori-san, Emi-san ready for Thanksgiving

Emi-san and I haven’t seen each other for a while so she dominates the conversation. Her excitement for the day is palpable. As she takes a bite she collapses around her food exclaiming in Japanese and then in English. Both rapidly. “Oh how I have missed cranberry sauce, oh and this gravy sauce is so good. This isn’t turkey?! Oh my goodness this is so good!” Now you have to add between each of those sentences she turns to her friend and says it in Japanese. Who must not have known what she was talking about because then Emi-san would point and name. That is gravy sauce, that is cranberry sauce. They also loved the olives and pickles.

We want coffee with our pumpkin custard and as we wait for my big American pot to fill, I am finding out how to get a yearly pass to the Hiroshima garden. I get out my notebook; I had bought it all those years ago in Teshikaga. Kaori-san lets out a yelp. “Where did you get that?!” I explain that I had been a ryugakkusei-international student-and bought it in 1981. Kintakun was this popular character at the time and he was on the notebook. Kaori-san tells me that she could not get one when she was a kid because he was so popular. That led me to tell her that I would be wearing my kimono for the New Year. She seemed concerned that I did not have all the accessories that go with wearing a kimono. So I went and got it.

Enjoying pumpkin custard, notice the pastry box is folded and has a cool pack.

A kimono has many layers and accessories. From the moment I brought out the duffel bag with it all, Kaori-san was awestruck. I began to unpack it all to show them what I had. A good thing because they obviously needed aired out. I so wish I could understand Japanese. Under her breath, shaking her head, Kaori-san spoke rapid, quiet words. Emi-san looked at me and said, “She is saying that you have a treasure here, every piece is precious. They must be cherished.” Which didn’t seem like I was doing. I was pulling things out, shaking them and dropping them in a laundry pile. As they dropped, Kaori-san would pick them up and slowly, almost reverently refold and put in a pile. She was on the floor with her legs tucked under as all Japanese women can. It was a sight.

Emi-san kept saying, “I can’t believe this. You have so many Japanese things-real Japanese things! Oh my gosh this is a real silk kimono!” Then she found 5 yen coins strung with pink yarn. This made her laugh and laugh. “Why would you do this? “ she chortles. “Because American money has no holes, and that is what a teenage girl would do. I told you I was an exchange student! ” a bit miffed that she found this so funny. “I know but I really didn’t know this! That you had all this!!”

I pick up a folded note tucked in a side pocket. It is handwritten and in Japanese. “What does this say?” As Emi reads, her entire demeanor changes. Her straight body bends around the note. She is shaking her head like Kaori-san. Her voice is soft and emotional. “Oh my, oh my, they love you so much! Your host mom wrote this all in hiragana so you could read it. When she sent this you only had two sons. {That was 20 years ago.} She is telling you that Kuzuo-san has died. Oh, my, oh my, Angela you have to go to them before more die. They loved you so much! You have to go to them!” By now she is standing, her hand on my arm, looking at me. We have kimono stuff all over the floor, remnants of our Thanksgiving feast still on the table. Her friend is still kneeling on the floor, now putting the neatly folded piles back into the duffle bag. Her face has the same urging look.

My kimono items

Like yesterday, a phone goes off reminding us of life’s obligations. It is school dismissal time. I am thankful for the signal. And like yesterday, I insist the mothers go do what they need to do. I have plenty of time to do dishes. And then laundry. We say goodbye and hope to have lunch together soon. Kaori-san thanks me for the special day. It HAS been a special day. I will never forget the sight of her kneeling on the floor reverently folding my things muttering how precious they are. Emi-san gives me a big hug and thanks me for Thanksgiving. Sorry about the lack of stuffing and pie I shrug. She hugs me again. “It was all great, really great!”

I wash, dry and put away dishes in shifts. There isn’t enough room otherwise. I find the yams in the microwave. Oops. Mom would find this funny. It was a real Thanksgiving if something got forgotten.

There have been times that I thought my exchange experience was a dream. Life has a way of taking over. Unpacking my kimono brought back so many memories and feelings. My host families were so good to me. The kimono is an artifact of their generosity and total inclusion of me into their lives. Each family treated me as if I were their daughter. They gave from the heart. My strongest memories are around the dinner table. Eating, talking, laughing. I was a part of their family. It was a magical year.

This photo was taken in Kuzuo-san’s tatami room during the New Year’s celebration.

I head out for my daily walk around the river. The fresh crisp air refreshes. The day was so intense I feel like I am returning from a trip. I think about my host families and what it will be like to see them again. It is apparent that going back to Teshikaga, Hokkaido is not a question of if, but when. I must study diligently to become as fluent as I can. I don’t want to talk to them through someone.

The problem-solving machine is awakened and begins churning. I hear fish jump and watch the heron soar looking for supper. As I am coming up the path, I run into my neighbor, Etsuko-san. Her smile is bright and inviting. “Are you finished walking?” she asks. Yes, but with the day I have had I can go around the river again. I join her and we talk, me Japanese with her help, and her English with mine. The only barrier we have is language. Etsuko-san is generous with her time and her knowledge. We laugh at the ways of our languages and cultures. I am reminded that just like before, here in Hiroshima, I am treated well, like family.

It All Started With Pumpkin Pie

It all started with pumpkin pie. At our first outing, Emi-san tells me how much she loves the food of Thanksgiving. When someone goes to great length describing the food they miss, you know they do. “I just love it! I really do!” She mentions that the Costco pumpkin pie was too big for her to buy but had really wanted it. I make a mental note to buy a pie and invite her over, thinking, November is a long way off…….

Halloween came and went. The November weather is beautiful in Hiroshima. The days feel like the Indian Summers of Idaho. Leaves turn without the cold temperatures. Gradually the green landscape turns a kaleidoscope of autumn. We continue to bike and explore on the weekends. Cooking school takes November off, but my days are full nonetheless. On our weekly trip to Costco, I check the bakery for pumpkin pie. November 28^th still feels a long way off.

Emi-san has been so generous. She found me the cooking class. She taught me how to be a good Japanese neighbor, use the post office, and good local places to eat. To share a pumpkin pie is a must. My friends from the cooking school have also been lifesavers. They pick me up, take me to places and do things I could never without them. We have simple, laborious, authentic conversations that take up an amazing amount of time. Showing my gratitude by making a Thanksgiving luncheon seems the perfect symbol of my gratitude. As a last minute addition, I invite Lulu, she is a Micron spouse, and the same age as my cooking school friends. I know they will like each other.

As November closes there is talk of Thanksgiving parties in the ex-pat circles. I hear how the international school does a huge Thanksgiving luncheon. So does the YMCA. I hear from a friend’s friend that they had talked to someone (Japanese) in the Costco bakery (who used to live in Salmon, Idaho!) and speaks great English. This person tells them that the weekend before Thanksgiving would be the last of the pies. It never occurs to me that there would be no pie. That is all Emi really wants.

Through texting it becomes obvious that I need to do two luncheons. So on Wednesday the cooking school friends will come and then on Thursday Emi-san and her friend, Kaori-san, will come. At the time, it didn’t feel like that big of a deal. I talk to my mom about the menu. She is good at reining me in. Keep it simple. Remember to save your potato water for the gravy. As I envision the day, I realize I need serving bowls for the guests of honor-fresh cranberry sauce, gravy and mashed potatoes. Emi’s favorite is stuffing, but we had had an in-depth discussion about the heartache of making family favorites in a foreign country. With no oven, roasted turkey and stuffing is not on the menu. This will be a stovetop Thanksgiving-with chicken.

There would be no pumpkin pie. It had been “discontinued”.

“Do they know this Thursday is Thanksgiving in America?!” I screech. Immediately apologizing to the wide-eyed bakery person half my size. Get a grip girl I tell myself. It’s just pie. Kind of.

The night before the luncheon I can barely sleep. So many things I think will work but really haven’t tried. My stovetop is complicated. Only two pots work on the back burner, and those pots don’t work on the two front burners. I have a medium and small skillet. Luckily, they all are non-stick. Food needs to be served hot to be delicious. How will I reheat the chicken? The microwave doesn’t work that great. I want it to be like a real Thanksgiving.

The table alone will seem exotic to my friends. I have a tablecloth, salt and pepper, relish tray, a dish of butter. Single dinner plates from Idaho, flatware, napkins, these are all things my friends only encounter at restaurants. Lulu has come early and she sets the table while I juggle the food on the stove. Brent Jensen’s “The Sound of a Dry Martini” plays in the background, just like it would on Bruins Circle.

My friend, Amy, had sold me fresh potatoes from the YMCA farm. I remember to save the water when I drain them; a good thing too because the gravy needed it. As I mash the spuds, their color seems so strange to me. A creamy yellow, not the fluffy white of a Russet. I was raised in Bingham County, Idaho. We grow the best potatoes in the world. The russet has flavorful skin, white flesh that cooks to a light fluffiness, and flavor that accentuates the meal. The spuds I was mashing smelled good, but absorbed the butter and milk like a sponge. I could feel their weight on my masher. Not the lightness of a russet. My mind thinks about my mom and grandma. They taught me how to cook and I am so glad. Today is taking a lot of thinking/cooking on my feet. It feels like I am improvising everything.

As I talk to myself, I hear my mom or grandma’s input. Gratefulness washes over me. I come from a line of women who take great pride in being able to cook a delicious meal. It is how we show love. I was taught the details matter. The more you think of the details the deeper the expression of love. Providing hospitality is very important work. It begins with a clean, inviting home, and ends with a delicious meal served in a beautiful way. I did not say fancy. In my family our work, homemaking, has never been dismissed as easy or meaningless. Quite the opposite, it is because of what we provide that the ones we love can learn, work, live well.

Ping Pong-its Japanese for ding-dong.

On the monitor two excited lovely Japanese ladies stand waiting to be let in. I hit the key button and they disappear. Here they come! I have slippers waiting for my guests, as all good Japanese hosts do. I have lit my Scentsy apple pie candle. The apple pie I will be serving came from the bakery down the street, but the candle helps give the apartment the smell of Thanksgiving.

Ping pong.

I wish I could give our greeting justice on paper. Tomoko-san is a very expressive Japanese woman. The minute she walks in she is squealing and saying in rapid Japanese that it smells wonderful, different, thank you, thank you for having her and that she is starving. Behind her is Rie-san. She is more reserved, and walks in with an arm full of presents-flowers, a vase, and recipe help. I introduce Lulu, who happens to be Chinese. Their reaction to Lulu is like everyone else’s. “You look Japanese!” Lulu bows and nods, as they try not to speak Japanese to her. We are speaking broken English/Japanese, all at once to each other. With each detail noticed, Tomoko squeals and speaks Japanese, then apologizes and broken English ensues.

Luckily I had found some perfectly suited serving dishes. As the girls chat, I dish up the spuds and gravy, put the poultry on a platter, grab the sweet potatoes, and the cranberries. Everyone sits down. They hold their hands up palm to palm, bow and say “Itedakimasu” which means “we are about to eat a feast”. It is said before any meal.

“Wait” I say “since this is an Idaho Thanksgiving, I am going to say grace. My family prays before we eat, so lets join hands.” They look at each other. Arms encircle the holiday table. Then I say aloud and slowly, “Thank you for this beautiful meal, my new friends, and all who can not join us. (My voice cracks as I think of my family back home.) Amen”.

“Amen” they all say.

Everyone is looking at me. They don’t know what to do. Japanese meals are dished in the kitchen and placed at the table each dish in its own vessel. So I hand the meat platter to Tomoko-san and tell her to take some and pass to the left. Rie-san takes it, places some meat on her plate and gingerly hands it to Lulu. Awkwardness is evidence of its newness. I show them how to make a little well in their mashed potatoes for the gravy. “Oishisoooo! (It looks so delicious!) Tomoko exclaims each time I hand her a dish. I notice that they very purposefully put their food on their plate, just like we do at cooking class. Rie-san delicately places it in the center of her plate, like an artist adding paint. As I am looking at her plate, I notice she has no gravy. “You don’t have any gravy!” I exclaim. As she gingerly reaches through the table, another culture teaching opportunity presents itself. “When we want something, we say, ‘please pass the gravy’”. Tomoko tries, “Pureesu pasu za gurabi sausu”. They call it gravy sauce. More squeals and exclamation of joy as each person asks to have something passed. Who thought eating could be so exciting.

It won’t be the only time we practice words and sounds. We look at each other as they make the sound attending to where our tongues are to make the sound. We work on the difference between the word ‘alive’ and ‘arrive’. Tomoko looks at me, shrugs and says, “they sound the same to me”. These exchanges always end in laughter; the women’s cultural veil of properness dropping, and then they let it all hang out. It’s at these times that it doesn’t matter our language, our age, our standing. We friends talk frankly about their lives and ask frank questions. It is a safe place.

Ping pong.

It is Chikako-san. She is due any day with her first baby, but she isn’t going to miss Idaho Thanksgiving. We eagerly, noisily greet her as she waddles in. I quickly make her a plate as they find her a spot. To my horror, it is now that I realize that the microwave has made the sweet potatoes inedible. Lulu is introduced. Again she hears how she looks Japanese. Then Chikako-san does an amazing thing. She looks at Lulu and says in English, “You are very beautiful. You have beautiful skin.” When I met Chikako-san she barely spoke two words. She did not make eye contact. Today she is not shy. It is Lulu’s turn to blush. The others agree and tell her she is beautiful. How welcoming they made her feel. I notice throughout the meal, Rie-san would ask Lulu about China or her family. Lulu explains that she met her husband at the University of Idaho, where my sons go to school. Chikako-san follows suit and asks Lulu if she has been anywhere other than Idaho and Hiroshima. “Europe and…

Instantly the Japanese begin shrieking! “Eeeeehhhhheeee!” “Honto niiiiii!” These high pitched female Japanese vocalizations are unique to their gender. This reserved gender is allowed to loudly express their surprise, or amazement in high-pitched utterances. And boy did they in my apartment. I started laughing and then we all were laughing. This uninhibited display of emotion is evidence that Lulu and I are in the inner circle of Japanese friendship. At this moment I am acutely aware that I am experiencing authentic friendship.

Suddenly there is rapid Japanese talking. Tomoko, Rie, and Chikako are speaking to each other very directly. It sounds so different than English. It’s soft and fast. I can barely make out any words. Then they are finished. It turns out that the three of them had run into each other at a store and found out that they had all been invited here.  When I had texted, I had invited each one in basic English. So there at the table the girls made a group chat through Line (this is a new communication app in Japan that everyone uses because it is free). Tomoko uses a photo of my taco soup as the icon. When I get invited it say Hart. I ask, “What is hart?” Tomoko looks confused. She points to her heart. Oh! We are the HEART group. Our phones start beeping and buzzing with invitations. Rie-san is helping Lulu figure out the app. Community building.

“I love these!” Tomoko is holding up a black olive. She tells me they are much better than the ones she has had in the past. I show her how when I was a kid would eat them of my fingers. The black (kuroi) olive fits nicely on her Japanese finger. Being that I bought the olives at Costco, I had a to buy eight cans. I now know what my omiyagi-souvenir gift-will be. They also love the pickles and green olives. Tomoko ended up eating two plates of food. “I do not want to stop eating!” Another beep.

It’s Tomoko-san’s phone. Time to go. She looks at me with her sparkling dark eyes. “Time go so fast here.” Rie-san is catching a ride with Tomoko-san. Chikako-san is obviously uncomfortable. The luncheon is over. I get out the red olive cans. More squealing. Chikako-san regains her composure and speaks English. “Ahribbisu”. One last practice of the tricky sounds of l, r, and v. Traditional Japanese behavior kicks in with deep bowing gratitude, while speaking “thank-you” and “domo arigatou gozaimasu”. Then we look at each other, and fall into hugs, departing American style.

My apartment is immediately quiet. Lulu gets busy washing the mountain of dishes in the sink. I put the leftovers away. I think about how in my family the women back home would go for a walk and the men would clean up. My Idaho family is sleeping right now. With kitchen back in order, we walk to the train station reflecting on the day’s events. Lulu gushes. She lives in the small town, Saijo that the Micron fab resides. It is a forty-minute train ride from Hiroshima. At the gate Lulu gives me a big hug. Her beautiful, shining, brown eyes thank me for the day. I walk home thankful for friends, family and food

Cooking Class

 

Thursdays are my favorite days. I get to walk up and into the hillside to my cooking class. I wanted to learn basic Japanese cooking. Emi-san found me a cooking class promoting healthy traditional meals. It is the perfect place for me.

 

The class is held on the third floor of some kind of family education center. The kitchen is a bright, sunny, huge room. On the south wall is a row of windows; outside you see the lush hillside. There is a long stainless steel sink with four faucets. It reminds me of the sink in our barn back on the farm. On the counter to the right of the sink is a drying rack with about ten beautifully used thick, wooden cutting boards. To the right of that are tall, narrow convection ovens. An American baking pan would not fit in it. The kitchen has five cooking stations. You might not see them right away, but here are five strings hanging down with a tiny clip on the end. On the north side of the room is a huge cupboard full of Japanese dishes. The doors are glass and slide. The stacks and stacks of dishes inside remind me of a Dr. Seuss story. On the counter is an example of how the table will be set today. Human produced posters on the walls inform us of measurements, how our kitchen stations should look, timetables and other things I can’t read. There is a smaller kitchen room tucked in the eastern corner. I have only seen the teachers go in there.

If you come early you get to help in the kitchen. I love coming early. The kitchen is quiet with only the busy hum of teachers getting ready. I settle in and get my bearings. There are six teacher leaders. The book study leader is at the sink creating bouquets for our table. She hums while she clips and fusses with the flowers the teachers have brought from their own gardens. There is always a pot of water with a big sheet of seaweed soaking. Other ingredients for the day await their transformation fish, chestnuts, root vegetables of every shape and color, bundles of spinach, plates of tofu. They are always glad to have help; they put me to work right away. You get to do that job that will make the day go easier. You might roll sweet red bean paste into balls or peel and cut a long skinny beige root called gubo. The Japanese cut most vegetables julienne style. This is cutting vegetables the size of toothpicks. Somehow they make even chopping vegetables feel like an art form.

 

There is an ebb and flow to the day. When you come in on time, you get your name tag, pick up the recipe and sit at tables put together in a horseshoe shape. We sing a hymn. I like this because it is written in hiragana and I can do it. Then we do a book study. I cannot participate, but I can follow along. I am really present in the moment. I intently listen to the sound of the readers voice, their facial gestures, the attention of the listeners. I notice when they stop and when the next reader begins. The books open from the left, the words start at the top of the right page and go vertical, periods are a circle not a dot, there are no question marks (they use the symbol for the syllable ka to mark a question). I notice that sometimes the reader doesn’t know how to read the kangi and someone will help. After everyone has read a couple pages, the leader calls on a couple of students to give their reflection. I notice that the speaker doesn’t make eye contact and apologizes for speaking before speaking. They also say, “finished” when they are. The first time I was there without Emi-san to interpret, the leader apologized to me that it would be difficult. I reassured her that listening to Japanese is good for me. She then asked everyone to read slowly to help me understand. Small gestures of hospitality will be woven into my day here.

In an instant book talk is over and everyone is rapidly putting on their aprons and head kerchiefs. No matter how fast I try, I am the last one to get seated at the cooking demonstration in the kitchen. There is always a stool awaiting me. The cooking teachers are very serious.  They meticulously go step by step through the recipes; showing the tricky parts, explaining nutrition, encouraging utility. We learn how to debone fish, toast sesame seeds, cut kuri (cucumber) into a cool spear shape for the fishplate. This takes an hour.

It is always a relief to get started. I don’t hear a gunshot, but the ladies act as if they have. The energy in the room moves from low gear to high gear. The beautiful cutting boards hit the counters; knives start chopping, timers are set, teachers assign tasks. Gas is lit, pans clang to their positions, students and teachers are scurrying around in their slippers. I notice right away all the indirect, humble, quiet language disappears. The teachers instruct in no uncertain terms. There is no please or thank yous, bowing is slight as they scurry to the next station avoiding the recipes hanging from the ceiling.

A cooking station is a big rectangle. On one end of the station are two gas burners, on the other a big sink, the center is workspace. There is a tray of basic ingredients by the burners. Below are cupboards with each side having specific items. There are photos on the wall showing exactly what should be in where. Under the stove is a huge dishpan and beautiful copper pot. I always think about how at home my grandma and mom would be in this class. Cooking class is like canning season, pots boiling, fresh food, and timers. Everyone is hustling around. But we are also talking and laughing. Japanese cooking takes a lot of steps. All the ingredients are raw materials-rice, water, fish, seaweed, and vegetables. I keep my eyes open and go with the flow. With all the boiling, frying, and mixing, the kitchen smells and sounds wonderful. I have come to appreciate the magic that shoyu-soy sauce, shio-salt, sato-sugar, sake, miren-a type of rice vinegar and omizu-water can make. In different ratios these ingredients transform ingredients into Japanese cuisine.

This fish was caught just before class.

The context of cooking is great for my Japanese language. The vocabulary can be embellished with gestures. The teachers talk in short, simple sentences. They talk like that to everyone. There is no time to be grandiose when there is full flame under the pan. I have learned to not ask too many questions. Unintentionally this can divert the teacher’s attention too long and nearly cause a cooking disaster.

Can you see our cut kuri, seaweed garnish, and fried fish?

As the dishes are completed, they are put in their assigned vessel. The tables have been rearranged into two groups. They are dressed in white linens and a bouquet of flowers. And just like that, the leading cooking teacher says something and everyone is taking off their aprons, head kerchiefs, fluffing hair, heading to the classroom. Again, somehow I end up being the last to sit. Phones document our hard work. We sit with the people we cook with. Everyone, including the teachers are back to the demure women they were before they put their aprons on. We eat quietly and talk about the meal. At the end of the meal, two students, one from each table, are asked to share their thoughts about the food. Then one of the teachers describes the flowers in the vases.

Although the meal is over, class is not.   After the meal, there is a lecture about some aspect of Japanese cooking. One day it was about the difference in soup stock, how Hiroshima is famous for our clear, flavorful stock, whereas Tokyo’s stock is very dark. Different dried seaweed and fish were shown. It is surprising how many different types of fish are used depending on the use of the stock. Another time, the topic was how to set a table for company or special festival. On that day, I was pulled aside and instead a teacher showed me how to sharpen knives. Another example of how they show me special consideration. The whetting stone is a great souvenir. Most of the time, I help wash the dishes. While the leading cook is lecturing, the rest of the teachers are washing the meal’s dishes. I like doing this. It gives me time to decompress. There are many dishes. Each dish is hand washed and dipped in boiling water-using chopsticks, before it is dried and put away. I am tall so I get busy putting away the stacks of dishes. One boiling copper pot is full of the white cloths we use to wipe up spills and dry dishes.

 

By the time the last dish is put away, the rest of the students have joined me. Without a word they all grab a cloth and start wiping down every inch of the kitchen. We all end up on the floor together, mopping the floor. It is my second favorite time of the day. When we are finished, and returning our name tags, the teachers hand us each a bouquet of the flowers, redistributed, wrapped in newspaper. I walk down the hill and back into my neighborhood. It is after 3 o’clock.