Untangling My Chopsticks (18 page)

Strange as it sounds, the Japanese exhibit a real enthusiasm for Christmas. Although less than 2 percent of the population is Christian, families view the holiday as an opportunity to lavish gifts upon their children, while young couples see it as a chance to
exchange heartfelt sentiments in the form of jewelry, stuffed animals, and dinners out. The carols, decorations, and silver and gold wrapping all play into the glittering romance of this secularized winter festival.

Shops, eager to fuel this fantasy, create elaborate displays, such as the Takashimaya department store, whose alpine scene looked like a Lilliputian version of the Sapporo Olympics. Through sophisticated mechanics, tiny skiers rode a red gondola to the summit of a snowy peak and then schussed down the plastic powder toward a pond of figure skaters lifting off for their next flying Axel.

Christmas cakes or
Ku-ris-ma-su ke-ki
(say it fast) are another manifestation of the holiday. These round white sponge cakes, heavily frosted with sweet whipped cream and ornamented with fresh whole strawberries and plastic Santa statues, appear in bakeries and stores all over Japan. While many young couples go out to dinner on Christmas Eve, families usually stay home and share a weirdly popular supper of fried chicken or pizza, followed by their cherished Christmas cake. Generally, the father of the family picks up the cake on his way home from work. He stands in line with all the other men to purchase his virgin-white prize, which drops drastically in value by Christmas Day, so stores can deplete their inventory by December 26.

This cake-buying frenzy has led to an interesting albeit sexist expression by which young Japanese girls are referred to as “Christmas cakes” after their twenty-fifth birthdays. For like the unsold cakes, their “value” diminishes considerably as the days tick by.

By mid-December I had become as sought after as a freshly baked Christmas cake. A flood of calls had poured in from schools and businesses eager to add some American spice to their
annual holiday gathering. In need of money and curious to see how they would interpret this Christian holiday, I accepted every invitation that came my way.

Which explains why my last two weeks in December were peppered with such adventures as singing Christmas carols with businessmen, playing Bingo with kids, and eating crispy pellets of what one high school student proudly announced was “fried kitten.” (Soon corrected with utter embarrassment to “fried chicken.”)

In between all these parties, I set about buying holiday gifts for family and friends. My tea kaiseki and Japanese language classes had gone on hiatus for the winter break, along with most of the classes I taught. Thus, I had plenty of time to shop.

For local flavor, the choice was either old Kyoto or Tokyo modern. Most of Kyoto's traditional arts come from the gorgeous dark wooden shops owned by merchant families who have been crafting the same articles for generations. At the teensy Nijusan-ya shop in central Kyoto, for example, you can still buy the same style of hand-carved boxwood combs that have been sold since 1852, along with flowered black lacquer hair ornaments for geisha. Or, at Kagoshin near the Gion, you can find striking woven bamboo baskets and vases for Japanese flower arranging hanging from the sagging beams of this century-old store. Near the east gate of Nishi Hongan-ji temple you can visit the four-hundred-year-old incense shop, Kungyoku-do, to purchase slim wands of incense perfumed with flowers, herbs, spices, and sandalwood. And if shop hopping is not your style, you can visit the Kyoto Handicraft Center near the Heian Shrine in eastern Kyoto, as my grandmother did so many years ago, to buy lacquerware, red silk change purses, and flowered kimono-like happi coats.

With all that in mind, I loaded my bicycle basket with both modern and traditional treasures that weighed next to nothing, since postage to the United States was astronomical. In return, three Christmas packages came to Tomiko's, one from my childhood friend Margaret, one from my parents, and one from John.

Margaret's gift I opened on Christmas Eve day because that was when it arrived (the other two came later). It was a confetti-filled envelope packed with red and green M&M's, a candy cane, and some Trident gum, since I had written her that sugar-free gum was difficult to find in Kyoto. She had also tucked in a sparkly key ring “for your new home” and a picture frame, along with several photos of mutual pals.

I missed my family and friends, particularly John. How could I not? And there were some things I occasionally longed for, such as a big-screen movie in English with a huge tub of buttered popcorn and some Ben & Jerry's Chocolate Fudge Brownie ice cream. But I knew most of what I craved lay waiting back home, including my parents, several friends, and John, who were all planning to visit in the spring. Ultimately Kyoto was so profoundly stimulating, there was rarely time to dwell on what life lacked.

Christmas morning was just another workday for Yasu, who was out the door by the time I rose for breakfast.

As a little treat, I had splurged on some real ground coffee that I shared with Tomiko, along with some fresh fruit that we turned into fruit salad. It could hardly compare to the old-fashioned New England feasts my mother would prepare—spicy fried scrapple all lacy around the edges, rosy homemade applesauce sweetened with cinnamon heart candies, and thick wedges
of sour cream coffeecake crusted with brown sugar and pecans— but the coffee and fruit were modest reminders of home.

Later that morning, Tomiko suggested we visit the huge flea market held on the twenty-fifth of every month at the Kitano Temmangu Shrine in northeast Kyoto. We could stop by for a few hours, then finish up our final food shopping for our Christmas dinner.

Kyoto is famous for its flea markets held at various temples and shrines on specific dates. Since the fairs had always fallen on days when I taught, I had never been to one. So after cleaning up, we climbed into Tomiko's white Honda and sped off to the shrine located just beyond the Nishijin textile district. After parking the car on a side street, we walked under the vermilion gate and crunched into the gravel courtyard.

At Kitano Temmangu Shrine, easily one hundred vendors sat crouched by their wares, laid out on plastic mats, newspapers, wooden benches, and hanging racks. There were old pieces of pottery—some chipped, some protected in padded baskets, and much of it simply heaped together—consisting of bowls, dipping saucers, and serving plates in various colors and sizes. Calligraphy tools—ink holders and brushes—lay near faded cardboard boxes holding rolled-up scrolls. For serious collectors, there were prints depicting sensual Edo period courtesans, tranquil landscapes, or quaint scenes, like women in kimonos bent under paper parasols clopping over snow-covered wooden bridges.

Stacked wooden lunch carriers, stools, and square wooden sake cups, all made miraculously airtight through interlocking joints, not glue or nails, lay in dusty disarray on one man's mat. On another's sat stacks of cloudy black lacquerware. Some of the cheaper bowls and trays were made of plastic or pressed wood chips. The best lacquerware had a carved wooden base.

Sealing wooden dishes with the sap of the lacquer tree is a technique imported from China. Depending upon the quality of the piece, the final surface can have anywhere from twenty to ninety coats of lacquer. Most Japanese arts that originated in China, including calligraphy, the tea ceremony, and papermaking, have been altered to suit Japan's unique aesthetic. In the case of lacquerware, the Japanese touch involves decorating the pieces with gold. Artists either adorn the surface with gold-painted designs (often based on nature, such as flowers, clouds, and waves) or abstract patterns made with gold powder or confetti-like specks.

For foreigners, probably the most popular flea market items are the used kimonos, which cost next to nothing, since most Japanese disdain anything secondhand. Heaped in piles like dirty laundry, these silk and cotton robes embody the idealized spirit of ancient Japan. Hoping to secure a piece of this romanticized past, I rifled through mountains of robes, lifting up each one for Tomiko's inspection. She fingered the fabric, checked the seams, and tugged on the lining. Then after a bout of tough negotiations with the kimono salesman, Tomiko took my one-thousand-yen note ($6) and handed me two prizes: a soft lilac kimono shot with abstract rods of crimson, cream, yellow, and gold and a pale cranberry silk kimono scattered with ivory and lime flowers.

By 3:00, we were back at the house unloading groceries from the back of the car, having made a detour to a special poultry shop to find a chicken that wasn't skinned, boned, and cut into tiny nuggets for teriyaki. After squeezing everything into the refrigerator, we set about preparing various parts of the menu.

Tomiko shucked fresh oysters, while I made stuffing from a recipe my friend Margaret and I had invented the year we both lived in Paris when I attended Le Cordon Bleu. To my surprise and delight,
I had stumbled upon the Kyoto branch of Fauchon, where I had bought a real French baguette to tear up and toss with chopped fresh herbs, butter-sautéed onions, celery, and chestnuts, plus some beaten egg and chicken broth.

In honor of the occasion, Tomiko and I set the low redwood table in her sitting room Western-style with her best indigo-and-white cotton place mats, matching napkins, wineglasses, and silverware. Earlier that week, Tomiko had even erected a green plastic Christmas tree in the family room and festooned it with ornaments, red and gold garlands, and a gold metal star.

Shortly before 5:00, Tomiko and I headed upstairs to change. Toro, the cat, lay in a ball in his usual spot, asleep on the cream leather couch.

Around 6:00, Toro was joined by a couple and their toddler, who had been invited to share Christmas dinner. The wife was a slim Japanese woman who spoke excellent English; her husband was a British-born English professor. The pair had met in Kyoto and had a sweet son named Christian, whom they brought along for the evening in a pale blue sweat suit that could double as pajamas in case he got sleepy.

No sooner had I introduced myself to the couple than I heard Tomiko utter, “Oh, no,” under her breath.

“What?” I asked, hurrying into the kitchen.

“We don't have a roasting pan.”Tomiko was squatting in her dressy olive wool sheath rummaging through cookware under the kitchen sink.

“How about the tray from your toaster oven?” I figured we could cover it with foil and origami some sides.

“Too small.”

“How about a rack?”

“I don't have one.” Tomiko eased herself up and went over
to the refrigerator. She removed a very small platter holding a huge chicken and asked me to open the oven. I scurried over to the stove and pulled open the small white enameled door.

“I was afraid of this,” she said, grimacing. There was a loud pop, as Yasu opened a bottle of sparkling wine.

“Do you need help?” The Japanese woman had come into the kitchen. Her husband, clutching a glass of bubbly, soon joined her. Then Yasu, who rarely set foot in this part of the house, padded over.

“Everything okay?” he asked, tapping out a cigarette from his silver canister. He lit the cigarette and tipped his head back to exhale a thick pillow of smoke.

“The chicken doesn't fit,” said Tomiko, lugging the platter over to the kitchen table. She set it down and looked at Yasu with her hands on her hips. The British man chewed the inside of his cheek. His wife looked worried. Christian, alone on the couch, started to whimper. Suddenly, I had an idea: “Do you have a soup pot?”

Tomiko bent down again to look under the sink. “Here.” She handed me a black-and-white-speckled pot. I placed it on the kitchen table, put in the chicken, and added some water.

“We can steam-cook it on the stove,” I announced. Smiles broke out as I tented the pot with foil and set the gas to medium.

While the bird languished in its sauna, we attacked the oysters. Tomiko had dressed them with a blend of soy sauce, rice vinegar, grated radish, sugar, and red chili, a sort of Asian mignonette. The sauce added just the right savory sparkle to the slippery sweet mollusks. As we sucked and slurped, and sipped the sparkling wine, Christian amused himself with a small orange truck that he occasionally drove over Toro's head.

By 7:30 the kitchen had filled with an intoxicating scent of
eau de poulet. Encouraged by its progress, I headed into the kitchen to prepare the lemon butter for the steamed broccoli. Tomiko stepped over to her tiny white microwave sitting on a tile shelf above the sink and squeezed a potato. They were still hard, so she punched in more time.

Around 8:00, I decided to check the chicken again. Lifting up the foil, I fluttered away the hot steam with my hand. I wiggled a leg. It resisted, so I cut into the joint area with a paring knife. Bloody juice trickled out, so I added more water, replaced the foil, and began fixing the salad.

The day before I had bought fresh spinach and enoki mushrooms to make a modified spinach salad, since Tomiko had never eaten one. But given the richness of the meal, we decided to leave out the boiled eggs and bacon. Despite these changes, the idea of eating raw spinach and raw mushrooms was novel in itself, as was blending rice vinegar with imported Maille mustard, crushed garlic, and olive oil.

With nothing left to prepare, I came back into the sitting room, where everyone except Christian was depleting a bottle of Merlot. Toro had managed to ease himself almost completely onto the boy's lap. Yasu poured me a glass of wine, Tomiko snapped pictures, and the chicken merrily continued steaming.

Around 8:45, Tomiko noticed the picture window had begun to fog over. I headed over to the stove and lifted away the foil. I blew away the steam, then plunged the knife into the bird's thigh. The juice was clear; the chicken was done.

Despite its boiled yellow pallor, the bird was incredibly succulent. Yasu carved thin slices of meat and neatly laid them on a platter. He surrounded the chicken with spoonfuls of moist stuffing. Tomiko heaped the baked potatoes into a bowl and set them on the table. Dinner was looking awfully white. But then out came
the lemon-butter-drenched broccoli spears and spinach salad glistening with dressing. Murmurs of approval filled the room as we all relished the feast. Even Toro got to gnaw on a wing.