We had a beautiful, cold autumn day today, perfect for cooking. It was also the first day I've felt up to doing anything really involved. Matthew seems to be recuperating quickly, so I decided to shake up the cooking from just soup or spicy things. We can't quite get away from the desire for spice right now, and I've added a tofu craving to the mix (Japan life = tofu cravings ― who knew?). Thus, mabo doufu was in order.

Mabo doufu originates in Szechuan cuisine, according to the internets. The Japanese have adapted it by adding sake and miso to the sauce, which also includes tobanjan, a spicy Chinese bean paste. I made a Japanese interpretation, and it totally hit the spot.



I plated it with some grilled satsumaimo ― Japanese sweet potatoes. I wanted the potatoes unadulterated because the mabo doufu and the third dish (more in a minute) both had very strong flavors, so I didn't oil them (bad call) or anything prior to grilling. Unfortunately, they were a) totally fugly; and b) good, but not complementary to the other dishes. Which was too bad, because I love satsumaimo. They're autumn produce, so there's plenty of time to make more.

I rounded out our dinner with a simple dish of hourenso no goma-ae, spinach dressed with sesame. My cookbook tells me this is technically a winter dish, but I figured I was in the clear because October in Tohoku might as well be winter. It was lovely and tasty, but as with the satsumoimo, it didn't harmonize so well with the other dishes. Clearly, I've still got a lot to learn about arranging menus here.

After a week of cold-induced sloth, I'm finally returning to life and the world. Judging from the number of people around town sporting medical masks today, it's not just me. And Matthew seems to be getting the cold now, which is a bummer because we have a Sunday road trip planned. Also because the cold blows, even if you're able to find some measure of relief.

Early in the cold, I started thinking like a New Mexican in search of a remedy. When we had colds in the States, we'd rely on green chile to help clear out our heads. A bowl of green chile stew is like a sauna: partaking leaves you all sweaty and drained, but you're certainly breathing easier. It is superior to a sauna, however, because it comes with tortillas.

Without ready access to green chile, we had to look elsewhere for our capsaicin fix. Fortunately, we are very close to Korea, which has its own frequently incendiary delight — kimchi. Kimchi, or fermented cabbage that is often mixed with a red chile paste, is widely available in local restaurants and stores. I did not feel like cooking much (that should tell you something), so the delivery udon joint was getting a lot of love from us last weekend. A bowl or two of pirikara (spicy-hot) udon and an order of kimchi chahan (Japanese fried rice) later, and I felt less like I had a particularly efficient marshmallow factory operating in my head. Unfortunately, kimchi doesn't do anything for the insomnia and fatigue accompanying the cold, but between being able to sleep and able to breathe, I'd rather be able to breathe.

So, while I'm feeling much better, the course of treatment has had a lingering effect: mad kimchi cravings. And the opportunity to eat more kimchi may be the one silver lining if Matthew does, in fact, develop the cold.

Farmers have started harvesting their rice. It gets cut and bundled, then the bundles are hung on poles. Most, like these, use vertical poles with the rice stacked in columns. Others use horizontal poles, with the rice bundles hanging over them rather like a clothesline.

Incidentally, the guy in the blue jacket is not a rice farmer. In fact, he's not even a guy — he's a scarecrow! The rice farmer's the one in the white shirt.

Autumn is in full swing here in Kitakami. Windy days, turning leaves, and frigid nights are now routine. For now, we're using our normal covers and sleeping in long underwear, but it won't be long until we have to add the heavier cover futon and switch out the fan for the portable heaters (yikes!). Thankfully, we had a cold and clear evening for otsukimi.

Traditionally celebrated by Japanese communities, otsukimi is the viewing of the first full moon in autumn. Instead of a man, Japanese see a rabbit pounding mochi (a smooth paste made of glutinous rice) in the patterns on the surface of the moon. People mark otsukimi by putting out treats made of mochi or rice flour, like dango, or autumn fruits and vegetables. I'm not aware that there was a sanctioned event in Kitakami, but we made a little celebration of it here at home by eating some usagi manjuu (bunny cakes filled with anko (adzuki bean paste)) and tsuki mochi (mochi filled with anko and made yellow, like the moon).



I only realized after purchase that I bought the bad-luck four pack of treats. Four is an inauspicious number in Japan; it's like thirteen to superstitious Americans. Oh, well. They tasted good.

Confidential to Dunky Chuck: Happy Birthday!

Autumn is coming to Kitakami. I know this because the Daily Yamazaki has been touting "Autumn's Good Flavor Fair."



I couldn't tell you what the DY is contributing in terms of good flavor because the odor drove me out before I had a chance to fully contemplate the offerings. It smelled like the Wheaton Dunkin' Donuts at 3:30 in the morning on a Saturday — phoo!

Autumn does seem to be prime cooking season in Japan. Kaki (persimmons) will be ripe for picking soon, mushrooms and chestnuts are peaking, and rice harvest is just around the corner. Plus, chill nights and cool mornings invite steaming bowls of rice and udon. Last week, I made my first autumn dish: miso-simmered mackerel alongside some genmai (brown rice) bought from Matthew's rice-farmer student. He and his wife had also given us some kind of a chili relish to go on the rice that tastes like nothing we've ever had before, but is totally addictive. It has that certain je ne sais Nihon that many foods here do — some essentially Japanese flavor that is rarely, if ever, found abroad.

My Japanese teacher lives near a pretty fantastic grocery store that I've started doing my Thursday shopping at for one main reason: it carries Akita nattou. Upon learning that he liked nattou, one of Matthew's students told him that he needed to try the really tasty nattou from Akita Prefecture, which is carried locally only by this store. Matthew does in fact like the Akita nattou quite a lot, so he's pretty happy when class day arrives so I can go to the store.

In addition to the nattou, this store is noteworthy for its samples. The first time I visited, one of those little plastic tables with a lidded bin containing toothpicks and a sample item on top sat in front of the seafood section. The sample du jour? Small bits of octopus tentacle. I wasn't really feeling tako that day, so I passed. Today's sample was raw tuna — mmm.

I also get my lunch here on class days, usually a salad with sesame dressing (man, I love that stuff) and a cute little dessert like a parfait. Today, none of the salads were calling to me, so I almost got a yakisoba sandwich. Then I realized that there was no way I could eat grilled noodles, meat, and yakisoba sauce in a hot dog bun without questioning the state of the universe, so I got a teriyaki chicken sammich, salad, and cute parfait instead. Mmm.

Gift update: We've gotten a pack of tissues each from an izakaya and a drugstore. I've also gotten a mix CD from a clothing store (Justice Style and Fashion, for all your Japanese hipster boy uniform needs!), I think by virture of being the gaijin chick who walked in and carried on a conversation with the clerk in Japanese. I felt bad for not buying anything, but I don't have Japanese hipster boy uniform (baggy jeans, tee shirt, and patterned short-sleeved button-down, worn unbuttoned) needs.

In the spirit of festivity surrounding matsuri, we invited a couple of friends over for dinner prior to last night's fireworks viewing. I was having some menu-development issues until Sunday, when our neighbor from across the street came over and passed me some garden-fresh tomatoes through the kitchen window. In possession of this bounty, I did what any right-thinking half-Mexican girl would do.

I made salsa. And built a menu around it.

Menu of chips and salsa, carnitas tacos with avocado (Sidebar: The Japanese word for "avocado" is abogado. I find this tremendously amusing.) and rice decided, we braced ourselves for the reality of our chip-and-tortilla situation. Chips and tortillas are available here, provided you're willing to accept chips and tortillas manufactured in Belgium as a viable option. Which we were, and were pleasantly surprised to discover that they didn't suck. What we were not willing to do was pay 1150 yen, or approximately $10 USD, for a six-pack of Corona.

As it turned out, beer was not an issue. One of our friends brought "appropriate food and drink," as she described them when she accepted the invitation. These included edamame, Japanese vegetable chips, grilled corn, and giant cans of Kirin Ichiban beer. Back at the house post-fireworks, another friend introduced us to a snack of cream cheese cubes dipped in wasabi-enriched soy sauce, which was really quite good.

Mexican food and Japanese food: two great tastes that go great together!

It's been so hot and humid in Kitakami for the last week that, most days, we haven't been able to see the mountains west of town. We got a brief respite on Saturday morning, courtesy of a perfunctory downpour from Typhoon Usagi, which had been downgraded to a tropical storm by the time it reached us. We also had a little baby earthquake, for anyone who's keeping track of natural phenomena in Iwate-ken.

Because it's so muggy, nothing sounds particularly good to eat. We've been relying on the old Japanese standby, zaru soba. Zaru soba is cooked buckwheat noodles, chilled and then served with a dipping sauce. The dipping sauce is based on tsuyu, a combination of dashi broth, soy sauce, and mirin (sweet seasoning), and flavored as you like with ginger, green onions, and wasabi. Normally, zaru soba is served on small mat-lined trays, which we currently lack because, well, we have no space for them. Here's a photo:



Incidentally, although we have a vague working theory, we have no idea who Big Stif is, or who the brave person is who did something with him/her.

Nothing says summer like blueberries. Unique to Japan, that means a big katakana banner heralding the aforementioned fruit.



My language partner and I visited Kitakami's blueberry farm this morning, accompanied by her daughter and a friend. I think this was a first experience for all of us, and speaking for myself, I've been deprived for thirty-two years. Really, it doesn't get any better than popping ripe, sun-warmed, straight from the bush berries into your mouth on a hot summer day, surrounded by beautiful mountains.

There was some competition for the title of "Best Blueberry Experience." In planning for the trip, I offered a lesson in muffin making because another foreigner had told my language partner how great blueberry muffins are, and she wanted to try them. Perhaps less altruistically, I knew she had an oven and I sensed an opportunity to get my bake on.

The lesson was great fun. Channeling my inner Julia Collin, I explained the steps and did the preliminary mixing and instructed the girls on how to mix wet into dry ingredients, leaving the batter lumpy for light muffins, and gently folding the berries into the batter so they wouldn't break. We all took turns watching the muffins in the oven and barely tolerated the wait to eat them when they came out. It was kind of awesome. So were the muffins. :)

Tonight, I'm busting out the chopstick whisk again to whip cream to serve alongside the otherwise unadulterated berries.

We were invited to a potluck this evening, which in my old world would translate into the production of baked goods. As you've all heard or read, however, we now live an oven-free life. Our cooking is limited to whatever we can make on a cooking unit composed of two gas burners and a small broiling drawer designed for fish. So instead of a cake, or tart, or cupcakes (mmm, cupcakes), I made banana pudding. I figured it was better to make something tasty from my country and leave Japanese food to the pros.

Store run: Bananas, check. Flour, milk, eggs, check. Vanilla of indeterminate origin, check. Vanilla wafers . . . um. Hmm. Nothing on the shelves appeared to be terribly similar to American vanilla wafers. I was going to pick up a bag of potato chips because they had the same shape, until I recognized the word "po-te-to" written in katakana (syllabary used for foreign words) on the bag. Disaster averted. Because you make pudding with the cookies you have, not the ones you wish you had, I bought a box of what appeared to be simple butter cookies and crossed my fingers.

Back in the 'Bash, the helpful dogs offered to lighten my load by eating the bananas. I rejected their kind gesture and got to work. We've got a rather sparsely appointed kitchen out of necessity, which is how I ended up standing at the cooktop stirring custard with bamboo cooking chopsticks. Also, I discovered that with an ample handful of them (six are better than four), you can whip cream to stiff peaks. It only takes about twenty minutes, or roughly the duration of the first six songs on the second disc of Prince's "The Hits/The B-Sides" box set. These things, I know.

Verdict: The pudding was a hit, even eaten with chopsticks.