It is difficult to convey, visually or verbally, the utter magic of the Japanese cherry blossom season. Although the blooms signal the arrival of warmth, their appearance can evoke both melancholy and joy. In their brief yet exuberant existence, sakura express spring’s inherent duality: it is both the most longed-for and short-lived season of all, imbued with promise but often tempered by the realization that another year has passed so quickly, and with so little awareness.

Sakura always appear on the cusp, heralding spring but not quite removed from winter. I can remember many occasions while traveling between Matsumoto and Tokyo, deep in the mountains, when I would catch sight of a burst of pale pink against the brown-green slopes. At this time of year, the air still had a faint chill around the edges, and fog often hung in thick layers across the steep hillsides. The sight of a single blooming sakura, standing alone amid barren trees, was both breathtaking and eerie, like glimpsing a strange forest sentinel.

When I returned to Japan after the March 2011 earthquake, the cherry blossoms were at their peak, a poignant reminder of what had been lost and gained in the span of a few weeks. I took a certain comfort in their presence, and in the way the blossom-studded branches seemed to reach hopefully and determinedly toward the sky.

Although the sakura have come and gone in New York, I’ve been on a quest to capture and preserve their inimitable character for the coming months. Photos do a fine job, but their static quality does little to capture temporality in its truest sense.

In honor of the Japanese tradition of hanami (cherry blossom viewing), I decided to host a picnic in a lovely, overlooked park in Queens. At one end of the park was a stand of stout cherry trees. The blossoms were not the delicate, pale type seen in Japan, but a much more showy variety, deep pink with layered, ruffled petals. I plucked a few buds from the branches (disregarding the admonitions of nearby children) and tucked them into an aluminum foil packet. Back at home, I stirred a few heaping spoonfuls of fine sea salt into a bit of water; into this briny bath went the tiny flowers, which were destined to become sakura no shiozuke, or salt-pickled cherry blossoms.

In Japanese cuisine, these peculiar pickles are mostly commonly consumed in the form of sakura mochi, a ball of red bean paste coated with mochi (often dyed pink), wrapped in a pickled cherry leaf, and garnished with a salty bloom.

Of course, there are many other ways in which sakura are consumed, from sakura-yu (a gorgeous infusion made with the pickled blossoms) to all manner of sweets, snacks, and confections.

My own experiment with making pickled cherry blossoms yielded a surprising result. Although the flowers had no detectable scent when they were fresh, after a week in their saltwater bath they had taken on a deeper, more vibrant pink coloration and smelled overwhelmingly of almond extract (perhaps due to latent amygdalin in the buds?) mixed with a hint of the inimitable fragrance that is unique to sakura. I popped one into my mouth and was immediately transported back to a kitchen table in Hakodate, where I sipped my first cup of sakura-yu alongside sweet-salty senbei and rum-raisin sandwich cookies from Rokkatei.

A few of the pickled blossoms were destined to become garnishes for hōjicha panna cotta, lending a subtle saltiness and piquancy to the creamy, nutty custard. In edible form, sakura are far more compelling than as pure visual pleasure. The tangible, visceral experience of consumption is both more elusive and more lasting than a photo: the flavor sticks with you and yet leaves you wanting more, a haunting (and fitting) way to enjoy the season’s fleeting pleasures.

How would you savor sakura, if you had the chance?

Here in Brooklyn, there’s a popular Australian coffee shop that does a brisk brunch business catering to folks who seem to come more for the fashionable crowd than for the coffee (which is excellent, though perhaps not as good as that at another Australian-owned spot a few blocks east). Now, it’s a bit of a misnomer to call this cafe’s food offerings a proper brunch, as the menu mainly consists of “toasties,” a quaint-sounding (and quaintly sized) open-faced sandwich. For two dollars extra, one can add a dollop of chunky guacamole to the toast; an additional dollar fifty buys a poached egg, which sits jauntily and wobbly atop the avocado. It’s an almost ridiculously simple concept, and in that sense brilliant from a business perspective: a toastie with avocado and an egg plus coffee can run well over $10, plus tip.

Excellent coffee aside, this is an experience that can be easily replicated in the comfort of one’s own home. Aside from provisioning the right ingredients – fresh bread, ripe avocados, and interesting seasonings – there is almost no labor involved in the creation of an avocado toast. But what, exactly, comprises a good avocado toast? Or better yet, what is the ideal?

The author of one of my favorite blogs recommends a rather rustic approach, in which thick slices of avocado are piled on the bread, then doused with fruity olive oil and sprinkled with jagged bits of sea salt. This is certainly the simplest version, a perfect choice for those operating in a pre-caffeine daze. Although the minimalism of this method highlights avocado’s substantial and sensuous texture, there is something irresistible about the interplay between capsaicin-induced heat, prickly acidity, and the cool, pale green flesh of that strange tropical fruit.

Enter yuzu koshō, a Japanese condiment composed of just three ingredients: chiles (green or red), yuzu peel, and salt. While it’s remarkable on just about anything (traditionally, as an accent for nabemono; less traditionally, dabbed on grilled cheese and scrambled eggs), its perfect match is arguably avocado.

Yuzu koshō from Miyazaki prefecture

On one particularly frigid morning this winter, when the clouds were hanging low over the Brooklyn rooftops and the seemingly interminable purgatory of March lay far ahead, I opened a jar of yuzu koshō that a Japanese friend had sent in a care package. Olive green in color, with a rustic texture and biting sharpness, it was miles away from anything I’d found in the States. Sampling a tiny spoonful, memories of a summer bicycle trip across Japan’s inland sea — steep island hillsides dotted with citrus groves, days of drenching rain, and windswept bridge decks — came rushing back.

I smashed an avocado with a fork, mixed in a bit of the peppery paste, and spread the whole mess on a piece of crusty, crunchy bread. What could have been an almost ascetic meal — avocado on toast — took on unexpected depth and complexity. Yet there was also a quiet subtlety to the flavors: the silky fruit flesh tamed the elements of citrus, salinity, and heat, mimicking the dulling of sense memory that occurs when one has been gone from a place too long. With each bite, Japan seemed increasingly distant, and my memories of that particular summer dissipated amid present experiences. Perhaps that is the best one can hope for, though: hints of summer’s promise tempered by a gentle reminder that those past will only fade further.

Smashed Avocado with Yuzu Koshō

マッシュアボカドと柚子こしょう

Here, you definitely want to use the best, most vibrantly green avocados you can find. Personally, I prefer them just a tad underripe, the better to savor the contrast between the rich flesh and the occasional toothsome bits. I’d also recommend tracking down an all-natural yuzu koshō; some varieties are made with sweeteners and thickeners, which tend to result in an unappealing, gluey consistency. (This brand is quite good and generally available at Japanese markets. Of course, as is often the case with condiments, the best option is to make your own.) Otherwise, there’s really no recipe here: smash an avocado with a fork, then mix in enough yuzu koshō to strike the right balance between buttery, fiery, and bright. You can also add a little extra citrus juice or salt, to taste,  if you like, or a sprinkle of sesame seeds and/or yuzu shichimi on top. Toast is nice, too, if you’re feeling ambitious. If not, there’s no shame in spooning this stuff directly from the bowl.

Imagine this: you’re five years old, visiting a new country and meeting distant relatives who speak little to no English. One evening, they invite you to their modest house outside Copenhagen for dinner. On the table are several small bowls of a mysterious, glistening substance in jewel tones of jet black, blood red, and rusty orange. Each bowl is accompanied by a tiny spoon, which you cautiously use to scoop up a sample of this mysterious substance. Suddenly, a shower of tiny bubbles explodes across your tongue in unison, and rush of sharp salinity overwhelms your palate. It is a peculiarly pleasurable experience – not necessarily delicious, but so novel that you reach for another tiny spoonful. And another. And yet another.

This was my introduction to fish roe, some twenty-odd years ago, while visiting family in Denmark with my half-Swedish and half-Danish grandmother. On that same trip, I sampled escargot, brioche, croissants, and sugar cubes soaked in espresso, but that first taste of fish roe remains one of the most vivid memories of my childhood. Unfortunately, roe is not a particularly frugal or ethical food; it connotes luxury and indulgence, and its production often involves a certain degree of cruelty. For these reasons, among others, it is not something I often feel a desire to consume.

Recently, however, I found myself compelled to revisit this distant memory. The impetus was nothing other than one of the most supremely subliminal pieces of marketing I have ever been subjected to. In this advertisement, a young blond haired, blue eyed girl playing on the beach is suddenly disrupted by a floating army of tarako-shaped Kewpie dolls descending from a giant fish roe mothership. As they float down toward the ocean, they sing a creepily juvenile refrain: tarako, tarako, tappuri tarako (cod roe, cod roe, full of cod roe). Suddenly, the ad cuts to an image of pasta being tossed with tarako sauce as a voice-over ensures viewers enthusiastically that the featured dish is, indeed, filled with plenty (tappuri!) of fish roe.

Taking a cue from Kewpie, I picked up some spicy (that is, likely artificially colored and flavored) mentaiko from the local Japanese market. (Throwing all caution to the wind, I bought roe that was both frozen and on sale.) After letting the stuff languish in the fridge for a few days, I finally got around to looking up recipes for fish roe pasta (a common preparation at casual cafes across Japan) on a popular Japanese recipe site. Most were dead simple and called for tossing cooked pasta with roe, olive oil, lemon juice, and black pepper, plus a few green garnishes. Instead, I sauteed the roe in an ample amount of butter, breaking it up with a wooden spoon as it cooked. Meanwhile, a few handfuls of thick spaghetti went into a pot of heavily salted water, the starchy remainder of which would later provide body and binding power to the sauce. Finally, I snipped toasted nori into thin strips, sliced and soaked few scallions, and crumbled a handful of ricotta salata, which provided a bright and saline complement to the buttery sauce. The mentaiko, which had turned a seductive shade of pale pink, clung to the thick, chewy strands of pasta, creating a satisfying play of textures. And although the cooked roe didn’t pop in the mouth quite as pleasingly as the raw variety, it still solicited the surprise and delight of that first formative taste.

Mentaiko Spaghetti - 明太子スパゲティ

Serves 2 – 3

2 oz. (60 g) karashi mentaiko (spicy seasoned pollack roe), or other fish roe such as tarako (cod) or tobiko (flying fish)
5 oz. (140 g) spaghetti
3 tablespoons (1 1/2 oz. / 46 g) unsalted butter
Kizami nori, for garnish (or use 1/2 sheet toasted nori snipped into thin strips)
Thinly sliced scallions, for garnish (optional)
Julienned shiso (optional)
Crumbled ricotta salata

Cut a slit down the center of each egg sac and scrape out the roe. Bring a large pot of well-salted water to a boil. Meanwhile, heat 2 tablespoons butter in a medium saute pan over low heat; add the roe and a pinch of kosher salt and cook gently, breaking up pieces with wooden spoon, until the fish roe is light pink. When the pasta is almost done, drain and reserve 1/4 cup cooking water. Add the cooked pasta to the pan with the roe, 2 tablespoons pasta cooking water, and the remaining 1 tablespoons butter. Toss thoroughly, adding more pasta water as needed, until the pasta is coated with roe. Season to taste with salt, and garnish with nori, scallions, shiso (if using), and ricotta salata.

One evening two weeks ago, I was wandering around somewhat aimlessly after a meeting on Manhattan’s Lower East Side. With nowhere in particular to be, I found myself heading toward a constant source of warmth and friendliness, not to mention excellent food: Family Recipe, the restaurant where I worked for six months upon returning from Japan. Housed on a rather nondescript Lower East Side block, sandwiched between a real estate company and a raucous bar, Family Recipe feels somewhat out of place. The restaurant’s neon sign, cleverly written in Kanji, reminds you that Chinatown’s bustling markets and noodle houses are only a few blocks south. Yet the sleek wood interior, low-key lighting, and open kitchen all suggest a fusion of understated Japanese design and a distinctly New York aesthetic.

As is the case at many casual restaurants in Japan, the kitchen at Family Recipe is completely open to the dining room, separated only by a narrow counter on two sides. When I was working in the kitchen, my coworker and I could always tell which guests were fellow restaurant denizens, because they’d often sit at the counter, the better to witness the back of house action. The sense of being a performer, always the case for any cook, was only heightened by the presence of these onlookers. When 8 o’clock hit and our first “wave” hit the door, then we really knew it was showtime.

On my most recent visit, I plopped myself down at the narrow counter and ordered an Echigo beer, made with koshihikari rice from Niigata prefecture. Light, crisp, and slightly sweet, it was the perfect way to ease into a leisurely FR meal. This was followed by the day’s dumplings, which were filled with a meatless mixture of kale and dried shiitake. Black truffle relish, a swipe of rusty red goji berry sauce, and a small pool of soy-vinegar dipping sauce provided a trio of earthy, bright, and acidic accents. Inspired by a recent piece in New York Magazine, I also ordered the cauliflower steak, which had been seriously revamped since my time in the kitchen. A single cross section of cauliflower, roasted until tender and caramelized, sat atop of pile of florets sauteed with pumpkin seeds and a splash of lemon. Flash-cooked cherry tomatoes, chewy edamame, and crunchy fried kale provided ample textural contrast, while a silky, vegan edamame puree unified the plate’s disparate elements.

As a final gesture of generosity from the kitchen, a tiny dish of the house specialty appeared on the counter above my seat. These days, every chef worth her cruciferous salt seems to have Brussels sprouts on the menu, but these sprouts truly surpass most other iterations I’ve tried (with the exception, perhaps, of Melissa Clark’s raw Brussels sprouts salad). Sauteed until crisp-edged and sweet, they’re finished with a healthy (or perhaps unhealthy) helping of miso butter, sunflower seeds, and a scattering of fried shallots.

Since Family Recipe opened in the fall of 2011, it’s received quite a bit of press. Understandably, most writers tend to focus on the food, but the real secret to Family Recipe’s success is its people, namely chef/owner Akiko Thurnauer and the people she employs. Of all the reviews I’ve read, this one best captures Akiko’s spirit and the spirit of her restaurant. Working there was truly like being part of a family, and it was just as much of a pleasure to return as a customer. As I whiled away time at the counter, surrounded by familiar faces and the comforting, hectic buzz of the kitchen, I truly felt at home. And this, I realized, was perhaps the best way to spend an evening alone one could ask for.

Family Recipe

231 Eldridge Street, between Stanton and Houston

New York, NY 10002

Tel: (212) 529-3133 · http://familyrecipeny.com

Just over three years ago, I was sitting in a frigid living room in central Japan, pondering the prospect of starting a blog (and struggling to find a fitting name for said blog). Six weeks into my new life there, the pace of discovery had been both exhausting and exhilarating. In that span of time, I had marveled at urban farms abutting highway exit ramps, transmission lines cutting through graveyards, utterly peculiar English signage, fanciful mash-ups of Western and Japanese architecture in Hakodate and Matsumoto, breathtaking rural scenery, and small slices of mundane beauty at every turn.

Yet what fascinated me most — and continues to hold me in thrall — was Japanese food. Everything, from the hearty rice bowls served at highway rest stops to deceptively simple soups, was prepared and served with a level of craftsmanship that is, I suspect, difficult to find anywhere else in the world. Despite Japan’s reputation for punishing work schedules and a general obsession with timeliness, there are places where the heartbeat of the culture slows just enough to remind you that time and our perception of its passage is entirely mutable. Food made with the degree of care lavished on it in Japan has a similar effect, momentarily expanding the relentless flood of minutes and seconds into hours. Although three years have flown by, there’s still a lot more to discover. I hope you’ll join me for the journey.

Black shichimi (黒七味), yuzu shichimi (柚子七味), and plain shichimi (七味唐辛子).

Having previously waxed poetic about turnips – specifically the petite variety known as Hakurei – it may seem repetitive to sing their praises again. Yet as winter’s darkest days dissipate and spring creeps ever closer,  I can think of no better way to celebrate the season than with a feast of these knobby roots. Their mild, crisp bite is enough to appease even the crankiest cold weather haters, while their humble appearance appeals to those of us with an unexplained penchant for the unloved castaways of the vegetable bin.

In Japan, I almost never cooked with turnips, in part because I was unsure what to do with them. Growing up in a household somewhat averse to brassicas and their cruciferous ilk, turnips were low on the vegetable totem pole. One recent evening, in a fit of dinner desperation, I pulled a bunch from the fridge and placed them on a cutting board, unsure why I’d purchased them in the first place. Boiling and buttering in the European tradition seemed an inappropriate treatment for these particularly delicate specimens, while pan-roasting, a delicious turnip technique popularized by Andrea Reusing, seemed to require too much time and effort at that late hour. Simmering in dashi would have been the classic Japanese preparation, but even this level of simplicity would have demanded an inordinate amount of time, effort, or both. Finally, it hit me: why not raw?

Cut into wedges and dipped in leftover homemade mayonnaise (seasoned to the hilt with raw garlic), the unassuming roots almost made a meal in themselves. Aside from the slight effort of whipping oil into egg yolks, a platter of raw turnips served in this manner provide a nearly do-nothing path to deliciousness. Better yet, I’ve discovered, are the slightly larger yellow variety – as mild and refreshing as their white cousins, yet infinitely cheerier, especially in the doldrums of mid-February. After languishing for one too many weeks at the bottom of the fridge, these particular specimens had sprouted at the top, the pale green tufts a teasing reminder of warm weather’s eventual arrival. Paired with fragrant, sunny yuzu mayonnaise, they’re also proof that winter – taken on its own terms – can be just as sweet as any spring.

Raw Turnips with Yuzu Mayonnaise – 生かぶと柚子のマヨネーズ

Makes about 1 3/4 cups mayonnaise

If you can’t find yuzu, substitute Meyer lemons, which most closely approximate the floral fragrance and subtle acidity of that elusive Japanese citrus.

2 (very fresh) egg yolks, at room temperature

2 tablespoons strained yuzu juice

1/2 heaping teaspoon kosher salt

1/4 teaspoon Dijon mustard

1 cup canola oil

1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil

1 1/2 teaspoons finely grated yuzu zest

Small turnips, trimmed and cut into wedges (daikon or other radishes, endive, and carrots work well, too)

Have all ingredients for the mayonnaise at room temperature. (If your eggs are cold, let them sit in a bowl of warm water for about 20 minutes to take the chill off).

Whisk together the egg yolks, yuzu juice, salt, and mustard. Mix together the canola oil and olive oil in a measuring cup with a spout. Starting with just a drop at a time, begin whisking the oil into the egg yolks. Continue adding the oil in a very thin stream, whisking constantly and stopping as necessary to fully emulsify the mixture. (If the mayonnaise becomes too stiff to whisk, dribble in a little more yuzu juice as needed to thin it out.) Once the egg yolks have absorbed about 3/4 of the oil, you can incorporate the rest more quickly.

Once all the oil has been incorporated, stir in the yuzu zest and season to taste with salt.

Many years ago, I read an article about Michel Richard, a French pastry chef who moved to the U.S. in the 1970s and now sits at the helm of a veritable restaurant empire. In the course of his cross country travels, Richard discovered that Americans seemed to be singularly obsessed with all things crispy. More precisely, he noted that there was a premium placed on the textural play between interiors (moist) and exteriors (crunchy), Kentucky Fried Chicken being the prime example of this sort of texture-driven cookery. Indeed, the fast food establishments that increasingly dotted the American landscape were particularly adept at a particular kind of culinary alchemy, which melded a relatively sophisticated understanding of sensory pleasure with mass-market tastes (and, of course, standardized supply chains). It was this discovery, claims Richard, that led him to rethink the way French food was prepared and presented in this country.

Upon moving to Japan, I was similarly struck by the emphasis placed on texture, though in the this case the prized culinary sensations were slippery and gummy rather than crisp and crunchy. The so-called “stamina bowl” – rice topped with nattō, raw egg, grated nagaimo, and sundry sticky ingredients (from okra to mozuku) – represented, at least to my untrained palate, a pure textural abomination. And many Japanese sweets seemed to be merely jaw-achingly chewy systems of sugar delivery. As I ate my way across Japan, regional preferences came into sharper focus, but the love of the sticky, the gooey, and the downright slimy remained. Hard as I tried, my tongue couldn’t seem to get the point of these textures – what is the point of food that slides down one’s throat without the slightest bit of effort, or in a dessert that doesn’t flake, crumble, or crunch between the teeth?

As I’ve come to realize, appreciating these foods requires nothing less than a fundamental realignment of one’s sensory faculties. Of course, texture (or any other culinary sense, for that matter) doesn’t exist in a vacuum. Yet perhaps it is possible to move beyond the holy trifecta of taste, smell, and texture – to hone in on an individual sense, allowing it to subsume all others – and achieve a result akin to enjoyment or satisfaction, if not pure pleasure.

Japanese sweets, in contrast to their crumbly Western peers, are the closest I’ve come to this sensation; they are, in a way, edible exercises in pure texture. For a sweet-toothed foreigner accustomed to flaky pastries and crisp cookies, Japanese pastry – chewy, chunky, starchy – can take some getting used to. In particular, the sweetened, pureed beans that comprise countless wagashi can be both texturally and conceptually challenging. Indeed, the thought of incorporating a vegetable (nay, a legume!) into a sweet dish runs quite counter to the notion of dessert I was raised to relish. Yet the humble bean is capable of so much more than a sweet, bland filling. Candied whole azuki can take on a beautiful, crystallized exterior…

…while cooked into zenzai, they form a delightfully sweet and soggy contrast to crisp grilled rice cakes.

But there is perhaps no higher use of sweet beans – and no better way to enjoy a confluence of peculiar textures – than ichigo daifuku. This delightful concoction consists of only three components (chewy mochi, starchy beans, and juicy strawberries), yet the end result is somehow both densely textured and buoyantly light, intensely sweet and teasingly acidic. And though these sweets may not be crunchy or have the raw appeal of their chocolate-dipped kin, they’re certainly worth discovering and appreciating on their own terms.

Ichigo Daifuku Mochi – いちご大福餅

Rice cakes with strawberries and red bean paste

Makes 8

8 medium strawberries, washed and hulled

160 grams (1/2 cup plus 1/2 tablespoons) smooth red bean paste (koshian), either store-bought or homemade (see recipe below)

Katakuriko (potato starch) or cornstarch, for dusting

100 grams (3/4 cup) mochiko (see picture below)

30 grams (2 tablespoons) sugar

120 ml (1/2 cup) water

Coat each strawberry with a thin layer of red bean paste, using about 1  tablespoon per strawberry. Liberally dust a baking sheet with katakuriko or cornstarch and set aside.

Mix the mochiko and sugar together in a medium microwavable bowl. Gradually add the water and mix well. Cover with a sheet of plastic wrap and microwave for 1 minute. Stir the mixture well with a rubber spatula and microwave for another 30 seconds, repeating until the mixture is sticky and somewhat translucent. (Alternatively, you can steam the mixture for about 10-15 minutes.)

While the mochi is still hot, dump it out onto the starch-dusted baking sheet. Cut the mochi into 8 equal pieces (a bench scraper is useful here). Working quickly, form each piece of mochi into a small round about 3 inches in diameter. Place a bean paste-coated strawberry, tip side down, on top of the round of mochi. Bring the sides over the bottom of the strawberry, pinching to seal. Repeat with the remaining mochi and strawberries. Before storing, dust each rice cake lightly with starch to prevent them from sticking to each other. Store in an airtight container, separated by wax paper, and consume within one day.

Mochiko

Tsubuan – つぶあん / つぶ餡

(Chunky Sweet Red Bean Paste)

Adapted from Japanese Cooking: A Simple Art by Shizuo Tsuji

1 cup (180 grams) uncooked azuki (small red beans)

1 cup sugar

Pinch salt

Wash the beans and place in a large saucepan of water. Bring just to a boil, then drain.

Add 3 cups water to the pan with the beans and simmer over medium heat, covered, until the beans are soft. If the beans look dry, add a little more water as needed. When the beans are done, they should be almost completely dry.

Add the sugar and salt and stir the beans with a wooden spoon over low heat until the mixture is thick and remains quite chunky.

For smooth paste (koshian), pass the cooked, partially mashed beans through a food mill, or puree in a food processor.

In other porridge-y news, Google Japan featured nanakusa gayu in their January 7 “Google Doodle“:

Via http://www.google.com/doodles/nanakusa-gayu-7-herb-porridge

See how the family is gathered around an opening in the floor, with the rice pot suspended from above? This is a representation (albeit a rather abstract one) of a traditional Japanese hearth, or irori. Nice work, Google!

P.S. Congrats to Margaret (aka Megsie) Siple, winner of the Humble Bean Cookbook Giveaway! If you have a chance, please be sure to check out her wonderful blog over at fishpondfever.wordpress.com

I once found the passing of the holidays a rather melancholy event. After all the parties, baking, and gift wrapping, we’re left with empty bottles, stray crumbs, and crumpled paper. As a student, the unpleasant feeling was heightened by the prospect of facing the long march through the Chicago winter. Living in Japan, however, each new year seemed to hold so much promise. In Tokyo, the January sky is bright, blue, and unmarred by the humidity and clouds that settle over the city in other seasons. Returning from the States, the gentle, late afternoon light and long shadows streaking across the rice fields near Narita airport seemed to be as warm a welcome as any weary traveler could ask for. On the train back to Koshigaya, I’d find myself marveling at the fact that this seemingly strange place could feel so much like home, even in the year’s darkest days.

Thus winter in Japan became a season for exploration, for travels to snow-blanketed hamlets and unseen corners of the country. This feeling of being at peace with the past and hopeful for the future was surely heightened by the delight of discovering new traditions, not to mention new foods and sensory delights, at every turn. Yet there was also something beyond the thrill of the new that gave January its charm. Perhaps it was the sense that, when the celebrations are over, all we really hold, indeed all that really matters, are a few things. Japan’s enduring New Year’s traditions – watching the sun rise on January 1st, enjoying a bounty of auspicious foods the evening before, time well spent with family and friends – remind us that each new year is not really a beginning, but rather an opportunity to gain perspective on the fortunes and follies of prior years. When the indulgences of the holiday season have passed, there’s true pleasure to be found in re-centering, focusing not on resolutions and goals and “fresh starts” but on gaining wisdom for the coming year.

Yet there’s another Japanese New Year’s tradition, far less elborate than the colorful osechi ryōri consumed on New Year’s Eve, that is worth sharing and savoring. On the morning of January 7, people all across Japan partake in nanakusa gayu (七草がゆ / 七草粥 ), or “seven herb rice porridge.” In this dish, creamy, overcooked rice is flecked with bits of bitter greens such as radish tops, turnip leaves, and chickweed. Flavored with only salt and perhaps umeboshi on the side, nanakusa gayu is thought to soothe stomachs weary from overindulgence and bring good health for the new year. (The basis for the dish, okayu, is often given to the sick and ailing, as overcooked rice is thought to be more easily digestible.)

This year, hungry for Japanese-style comfort after a holiday season of buttery treats, I decided to try my hand at this simple dish. (My trusty Japanese rice cooker had a setting for okayu, which makes the whole thing almost too easy.) In Japan, supermarkets sell prepackaged sets of nanakusa greens, but I picked up whatever was fresh at Sunrise and the farmer’s market. Of the seven traditional greens, I was only able to find suzuna (turnip leaves), which I mixed with mitsuba, frilly mustard greens, two kinds of juicy tatsoi, peppery arugula, and mizuna. Luckily, all seven worked beautifully together – hopefully a sign of good things to come this year.

Nanakusa Gayu - 七草がゆ

(Seven Herb Rice Porridge)

Adapted from sirogohan.com

This makes a rather soft porridge, but if you prefer one with a little more bite, reduce the water by a cup or so, for a rice-water ratio of 1 : 7. For a really soft texture, use a ratio of about 1 : 10. You can also bulk up the recipe by stirring in a bit of beaten egg before serving.

Serves 4-5

1 cup (8 oz / 223 g) Japanese rice

8 cups (500 ml) water

About 1 teaspoon sea salt, or to taste

Assorted seasonal greens (seven types if you want to be traditional, or come up with your own combination), finely chopped

Umeboshi or other pickles, optional

Give the rice a quick rinse and place in a large saucepan with the water. Bring to a boil over high heat and stir; lower the heat and simmer with the lid ajar for about 15 minutes. Stir the mixture gently with a wooden spoon, scooping any rice up from the bottom of the pan to prevent it from sticking.

Continue cooking for about 20-30 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the porridge has thickened and the liquid is partially absorbed. Season with salt and stir in the greens, which will wilt almost immediately. Serve with umeboshi or other pickles, if desired.

As Shichimi readers, you probably understand that this blog is a purely personal project: I don’t accept advertising, sponsorships, or any other forms of patronage. (Any ads you see at the bottom of this page are there courtesy of WordPress.) However, I do enjoy promoting and supporting individuals and small businesses I admire, hence the list of blogs you see listed on the right. Of these blogs, there are very few I actually read regularly, but a small handful keep me coming back for their beautiful photography, creative approach to food, and engaging writing and stories. Azusa Oda’s blog Humble Bean has all these elements and more. That’s why I’m pleased to announce that I’ll be giving away a copy of Azusa’s latest recipe booklet, which includes 11 recipes and gorgeous color photos, to one lucky reader in 2013!

Based in Los Angeles, Azusa has been writing about her forays into contemporary Japanese cuisine since 2009. Her fresh, unpretentious approach to a seemingly impenetrable (at least to Westerners) culinary tradition is genuinely refreshing and inspiring; her recipe for keema curry udon strikes a perfect balance between comfort and novelty while also hinting at Japan’s changing tastes. (Keema curry is a favorite standby in Indian restaurants across Japan.) An appreciation for tradition – and a willingness to bend the rules when necessary – is also evident in recipes like kabocha shiruko, which takes a classic Japanese dessert and gives it a colorful, modern twist. A few old school dishes such as furofuki daikon and chikuzenni also make the cut, but the presentation is fresh and approachable, thanks to Azusa’s helpful photographs and instructions.

To enter the giveaway, all you need to do is:

1) Become a follower of Shichimi (click “Subscribe” on the upper right of the home page)

2) Leave a comment that briefly describes your favorite cookbook (Japanese or otherwise) by Monday, December 31, 2012 at 11:59 pm EST. The winner will be chosen at random and announced in early 2013. (The winner will be contacted by e-mail, so please be sure your address is correct when you fill out the comment form.)

Thanks and good luck!