Chapter 4 Grandma’s Secret Umeboshi #5
Finally, the white tip of the onigiri peeped out.
The onigiri, Matsuko wrote, should be shaped gently by hand into a triangle, once the freshly cooked white rice had cooled down. She had particular rules about how the rice should be pressed together, and I had followed her instructions as loyally as possible.
Kimura had said that he “had no idea” about Matsuko’s efforts, but perhaps that was because she was so good at hiding them.
Perhaps she didn’t want her family to see the hard work she had put into her cooking.
She didn’t want them to know about the long journey that got her to the amazing chef she was. She had wanted to make it look easy.
At least, that was the feeling that I got. Why else would she go through the trouble of hiding her recipes so well?
“There’s a magic spell,” I said to Kimura. Apparently still nervous, he was holding the onigiri with both hands as he sat motionlessly.
“A magic spell?”
“There was a magic spell that Matsuko used to say every day when she made the onigiri. Did you ever hear it?”
Kimura, still in the same position, shook his head softly.
“It goes like this,” I said, pressing together an invisible onigiri.
“God of Onigiri, please let Yasunari have another day of delicious meals.”
“God of Onigiri? That’s sweet.” Iori chuckled.
“Well, there is that ancient belief that every grain of rice is inhabited by seven gods,” Hozumi said.
If this were true, then it would mean that the onigiri is inhabited with enough gods to fill an entire concert hall. That sounded as though it could bring a lot of good fortune.
“Apparently, you chant this magic spell while pressing the rice together, and it makes the onigiri really tasty. I did it, too.”
Kimura looked as though he had finally made up his mind. Slowly, he moved the onigiri to his mouth. I’d done everything I could do. I was sure of that. But the tiniest of differences can greatly influence the flavor of a dish. All I could do now was pray, pray to the God of Onigiri.
Gently, Kimura bit into the onigiri and chewed quietly. Then he took another nibble. And another.
And then, on his fourth bite, he ate a big mouthful, and scrunched up his face.
Kimura lowered his gaze to the half-eaten onigiri, surprised, watching the bright crimson umeboshi filling spill out. Just the sight of it made my mouth water and gave me a sore throat.
The more Kimura ate, the more scrunched up his face became, just like the wrinkly umeboshi.
“Oh,” Kimura gasped, “that is sour.”
The rest of us exchanged glances and burst into laughter.
I couldn’t blame him. Matsuko’s umeboshi was nothing like the store-bought ones, which are often sweetened with honey.
Hers were done the proper old-fashioned way, making them thoroughly sour and salty.
They were so sour that, when we each tried one earlier, our eyes squeezed shut and our lips puckered up like the mythical Hyottoko.
It took a while for our usual faces to return.
It seemed as if Kimura was feeling the same effects. He squirmed in his seat, making gasping noises. He opened the oval lid of his bento box and reached for a piece of rolled omelet, probably in an attempt to neutralize his palate.
He wolfed down the rest of his onigiri, then peeled the foil off the second onigiri and bit into it. He ate some karaage, then, using his chopsticks, deftly carried the simmered hijiki seaweed and soybeans into his mouth before taking another bite of the onigiri.
Who knew he was capable of such a hearty appetite? I thought, watching him eat with surprising gusto.
Once he had eaten about half of his second onigiri, he suddenly stopped and lowered his gaze.
He sat seemingly paralyzed, still holding his chopsticks in his right hand, and the onigiri in his left hand.
“Oh, my, that is sour,” he said.
A single teardrop fell on the umeboshi.
“This really takes me back.” Kimura was laughing and crying as his face contorted. A waterway formed on his face, and tears slowly descended along the creases of his skin. A small cluster of rice fell from the side of his mouth and landed on the furoshiki.
“It’s so sour, it’s making me cry.” He took another big bite of the onigiri, despite his wet eyes and drippy nose.
I was so relieved.
I brought out the extra onigiri I had made from the kitchen and put them down on the table.
“Shall we have some, too?”
“Yes, let’s,” Iori replied.
“I’ve worked up an appetite just from watching you eat, Kimura,” said Hozumi.
Several bites into the fluffy rice, a burst of tanginess filled my mouth.
“Wow, that is sour. It’s really, really sour,” said Iori.
“My God, Matsuko is relentless,” Kimura chortled.
Another day of delicious meals.
I felt that I understood how Matsuko felt. Being able to enjoy every meal of the day is something we take for granted, even though it’s not always easy to do. There are days when you feel so down that you lose your appetite. Sometimes life gets so tough, everything you eat becomes tasteless.
“I’m going to make umeboshi next year,” I said to Kimura. “I’ll never stop making them.” The words were tumbling out of my mouth. “I’m going to make them every year just the way Matsuko intended, and serve them at Amayadori. You can come anytime if you ever feel like eating them.”
Kimura looked at me intently, his eyes red with tears.
Then he crinkled his face up into a smile. “I’ll hold you to that,” he said. “I’m going to come here every day, then.”
“I’ll give you more coupons,” Iori chimed in.
“Will you? You are really something, young man.”
I interjected, “Not a chance! You have to pay!”
“Here we go again…” Hozumi said, rolling his eyes playfully.
Making sure that all meals are delicious. Enjoying meals with the people I love. Maybe this is what happiness means to me.
My mind wandered through these thoughts as we tucked into the onigiri.
It was so sour, even my heart squeezed inside my chest.