Chapter 4 Grandma’s Secret Umeboshi
Grandma’s Secret Umeboshi
“Are you sure you can re-create the flavor? The last time he tasted it was three years ago, right?” Hozumi said, deftly pressing the rice together in his palms to form an onigiri.
“What was I supposed to do? He said I was his last hope. Don’t you want to help him out?”
“I do, but…”
After shaping the rice into a perfect triangle, Hozumi wrapped a sheet of nori around it as the final touch, then got started on his next onigiri straightaway. I watched his skillful hands in awe.
“What?”
“I was just thinking how perfect your onigiri looks. You’re like a pro.”
“Oh, it’s because I make my own packed lunch all the time. What’s next?”
“Umm…a Tawara-shaped onigiri, please—you know, the cylindrical ones,” I said. “After that, I’d like ball-shaped ones.”
Laid out on the counter at Amayadori was an array of onigiri in different shapes, each filled with a different variety of umeboshi. I felt dizzy at the thought of having to find the right onigiri shape and umeboshi out of an infinite number of combinations.
It had all started two weeks ago.
The Three Couponeers of Amayadori were having their usual chats, catching up on the latest gossip about corrupt politicians and whatnot.
They happily ate their soft-serve ice cream, commenting on how much hotter the days had become.
Having lingered for a good two hours, the men finally rose from their seats and made their way to the till.
“Momo-chan.” Kimura, who had been waiting for his turn to pay, suddenly turned toward the kitchen where I was standing. “What do you call that funny thing you do…you know, where you talk to a customer and re-create their dish?”
“Do you mean the Ex-Boyfriend’s Favorite Recipe Funeral Committee?”
Glancing nervously at Adachi and Takamura as they settled their bills, he quickly leaned close to my ear. It was obvious that he didn’t want them to hear.
“I don’t suppose you could…re-create a flavor from the past? That would be a bit of a stretch, wouldn’t it?”
The flavor that Kimura longed to taste was the onigiri that his late wife, Matsuko, used to make.
Yasunari Kimura was the owner of Kimura Shoten, a bookstore about a six-minute walk from Amayadori.
Ever since he was a young man, he had spent most of his time working, rarely taking a day off.
He told me that Matsuko used to pack him a homemade lunch every day, and that was what had gotten him through the day.
“I’ve been having the same dream almost every night as of late,” said Kimura, letting out a deep sigh.
“In it, Matsuko hands me my lunch, telling me not to forget it. As usual, I take it from her. At the shop, I go to eat it…I unwrap the furoshiki and lift the onigiri to my mouth. But then I realize, I can’t taste anything.
I can’t remember how it tasted. I’ve never forgotten before, but now… ”
How could I say no to that plea? I suddenly clutched Kimura’s fragile shoulders, promising him that I would find a way to re-create Matsuko’s onigiri.
And so, every day since, I found myself making different flavors and getting Kimura to taste-test them.
—
It seemed that Hozumi was skeptical.
“This flavor of Matsuko’s…how do we know if we’re getting anywhere near it?”
“Kimura said it’s been a really long time since he had one, so he doesn’t remember it that well, but I hear that taste and smell can trigger all kinds of memories. He’ll probably know it as soon as he tastes it.”
I tried to sound as convincing as possible, but inside, I was starting to feel more and more anxious.
Normally, the clients of the Funeral Committee would give us a recipe, and if not, they’d make the dish and we’d watch how they made it.
But things were different this time. The only information we had about the dish was that it was an onigiri and that its filling was umeboshi.
“I wonder if she really didn’t leave a recipe,” Hozumi said.
“Kimura said he looked for it but couldn’t find anything. I suppose onigiri are so simple to make that it would be unusual for someone to write down the recipe.”
Kimura was due to come to Amayadori once he closed his store for the day. I’d ordered several types of umeboshi online and had made onigiri of different shapes. I hoped that we were getting closer.
Iori, who had been working on his computer, peered into the kitchen.
“Maybe he’s tried too many varieties, and now he’s confused? Why don’t you give it a break for a while.”
Just then, the door flung open.
“I—I remember!”
It was Kimura. Leaning against the counter, he breathed heavily with his shoulders. He removed his gilet and wiped off the sweat dripping down his neck. His stooped back was trembling.
“Easy now, are you okay?”
“I just remembered, Momo-chan. It’s the plums!”
He sipped the glass of water that Iori had poured for him. Once his breathing had calmed, he spoke again.
“The umeboshi inside Matsuko’s onigiri—they were terribly sour. Today, I had a recollection of eating them. My face would get scrunched up because they were so sour.”
Her umeboshi was so sour that it made him squirm in his seat.
“Oh! Why don’t you try this one first, then?”
I handed him an onigiri filled with the sourest umeboshi I had sourced. After taking several bites of it, Kimura shook his head.
“No, it was sourer than this.”
“Really? This one features the sourest plums I could find. Do you know which brand she used?”
There is a huge variety of umeboshi all over Japan. Looking for the specific one Matsuko bought would be like looking for a needle in a haystack.
I had another thought. Nowadays people like to cut down on salt. If her umeboshi were so sour, they would have to have been extremely salty—it was unlikely for such umeboshi to be sold in stores anymore.
That must mean…
“Could it be that Matsuko made her own umeboshi?”
Kimura stared at me with widened eyes. I watched his veiny hands as he rubbed his forehead. A look of realization swept across his face.
“Come to think of it, we used to receive a box of yellow-colored plums every year…”
“Bingo!”
“I always assumed that the plums were for making plum wine.”
“A lot of people make plum wine and umeboshi together. That must be it! Did Matsuko spend a day in July or August working on something outdoors for a long time, like on your veranda or in your backyard?”
“Yes—yes! Every year. And I always wondered why she had to choose such a hot day for it.”
Aha! That is definitely it!
“Matsuko must have made her own umeboshi and used them in her onigiri!”
“Right…but I don’t have any of that umeboshi left.”
A gloomy expression came over Kimura’s face as he let out a sigh, realizing it might not be possible to re-create them. Sliding off his glasses, he rubbed the sweat off his eyelids.
There must be a way.
Biting my lip, I racked my brain for ideas.
I cast a glance at my phone screen as a thought bloomed.
June 20th…we might make it just in time if we start now.
“We’ll make umeboshi ourselves!” I declared, pumping my fists.
“But, Momo-chan, do you even know how?” Kimura asked.
“Don’t worry! Back home in the countryside, I used to help my grandma make them. And thanks to the Funeral Committee, I’ve gotten pretty good at re-creating recipes. I’m sure I can do it with umeboshi, too.”
Hozumi’s suspicious glare pierced through me as he asked me silently, Are you really sure?
What the hell—if I don’t do it, then who will?
Kimura quietly rose from his chair and took my hand with both of his hands.
“Please. At this rate, I will—”
He stopped mid-sentence.
Then he said, “Thank you. I know I can count on you, dear.”
Kimura’s home was a cozy two-story house. Its entryway was lined with pots and planters full of dry soil and no flowers.
We were led to the back of the living room. Makiko’s kitchen, where she had spent most of her life, was behind a curtain made of wooden beads.
“Wow. It’s…amazing,” I said, goose bumps popping up all over my arms.
“It feels like stepping into the past,” Hozumi commented.
“It’s like something out of a drama,” Iori added.
There was a well-worn kettle in red enamel, and all sorts of condiments were arranged tightly next to one another.
Handwritten recipes were attached to the fridge door by magnets, her beautiful penmanship catching my eye.
The dates on the recipes indicated that they were all from four years ago.
She must have noted down the recipes from a TV program, because some of them had the words “from NHK” scribbled next to them.
While she had made good use of the small space available, keeping her items neatly organized, it didn’t lead to a minimalist approach; it was obvious that she liked to stock up on things.
There were five or six unused boxes of rubber bands and Saran Wrap and countless pairs of chopsticks.
“I try to keep everything exactly as she left it,” Kimura explained.
On closer inspection, I could see that most of the condiments were past their use-by dates.
When I touched them, my hand felt sticky with dust. It was a reminder that, although the space looked as if Matsuko could walk in at any minute, it hadn’t been in proper use for three whole years.
It was as though the room was stuck in the past.
“Feel free to search anywhere you like. I believe my wife kept the cookbooks on the bookshelf opposite the back door,” said Kimura. He glanced at his watch. “I do have to get to my store now.”
I tapped my heart with my hand, hoping that the gesture would put him at ease.
“Don’t you worry about anything. Leave it with me! I’m sure I’ll find the recipe in no time. Call it chef’s intuition.”
“Are—are you sure?”
“Absolutely! You go over to your store now.”
Although Kimura looked a little worried—actually, he looked really, really worried—he thanked us and headed out.
—
Two hours later, we had found nothing. Absolutely nothing.
“How? Why?”
Surely we should have found it by now.