Blue Lotus

二回目詣

A few weeks ago I posted about hatsumoude, meaning the first visit of the year to a shrine or temple, which is something nearly every Japanese person does early each year. This year I did it twice, first in Osaka with my in-laws and then in Tokyo's Meiji Jingu Shrine with a friend. I made up a word for the second visit: nikaimemoude, which is the title of today's post. I have no idea if it's a real word or not but I think it makes sense, so I'll stick with it.

I've been to Meiji Jingu many, many times and quite like the place. But just once I'd like to visit on a nice clear day, with a working camera and lots of time to take pictures. As it happens, this visit was no different than usual: it was raining so I had to use my camera phone (which is waterproof), and it was freezing cold so I was in a hurry to put my phone back in my bag and my gloves back on my hands. So I've just got a few bad pictures of a place that is actually quite beautiful.

As always, the shrine features giant ema (votive plaques) decorated with this year's juunishi (zodiac animal): the mouse (or rat, depending on who's translating). For reasons unknown the mice are often depicted munching on an akakabu (red turnip), and if anyone knows why I'd love to know.

The real ema are tied onto a special octagonal hanger that encloses a tree (a very special tree from the looks of it, judging by the shimenawa, or sacred straw rope, wrapped around the trunk). These who have a special wish for the new year buy the ema at the stalls to the left of the picture, then write a prayer on the back before hanging them up among hundreds of other ema.

The bulk of the ema we saw asked for help with romance, getting pregnant and safely delivering, passing school entrance examinations, and recovery from health problems, although a few wished for loftier things like world peace. It was fun to read them and spot ones in different languages (of which there were a surprising number). I hope everyone's prayers are answered this year. Especially the prayers for peace.

湯豆腐

Yudofu is one of the simplest dishes in the world, and one of the healthiest. Somehow it also manages to be incredibly comforting and satsisfying and is guaranteed to warm you up to the tip of your toes on a cold winter night. It is made by gently heating up a piece of kombu (kelp) in a pot of water, and added cubes of silken tofu-- the best available-- and simmering gently. The tofu is carefully spooned into a bowl and topped with soy sauce or ponzu (citrus soy sauve) and an assortment of yakumi, which are toppings like sliced negi (long onion), grated ginger, katsuobushi (bonito flakes), sesame seeds, and shichimi (seven spice mix).

Yudofu doesn't really make a full meal though, so on Sunday night we made the yudofu into a little nabe (hotpot) and added spinach and thinly sliced pork. On the side we had pickled hakusai (napa cabbage) and burikama no shioyaki (salt-grilled yellowtail collar).

Still, the tofu was the main event. This is probably a hard dish to understand if you've never had good quality Japanese tofu, but trust me: tofu can be delicious, and this is one the best ways to eat it.

Posada del Sol

On the weekend my sister-in-law and her family invited us out to lunch at Posada del Sol, a Mexican restaurant in Shimotakaido. We were excited because good Mexican food is hard to find in Tokyo, and this place more than lived up to our expectations. I'm not terribly familiar with real Mexican food so am not sure how authentic the food was, but in terms of deliciousness this place was wonderful.

Sadly most of my photos didn't turn out, so you can't see the ceviche, quesadilla, chorizo, burrito, and other dishes we ordered, but here are a few of the pictures that did. Above are taquitos, beef and refried bean tacos rolled up and fried.

These carnitas (tacos stuffed with juicy, crispy and succulent pork) were my favourite, and I'd go back again just for them.

These lamb chops were a surprise hit. No idea what was in the tangy, spicy sauce but it tasted fantastic.

I forget what this cake was called, but it another dish I'll go back for. I'm not a big cake person but I loved the firm but creamy texture and the mildly sweet corn flavour. I have no idea if this is an authentic Mexican dessert or not, but if anyone can help identify this cake I'd be very grateful. I'd like to try duplicating at home but can't find a suitable recipe online so far.

Posada del Sol is a bit pricey, but then again we practically ordered the entire menu and ignored the reasonable lunch specials. Still, the food was very good so I don't think it's overpriced, and if only we lived a bit closer I could see myself going regularly. Just one thing I didn't like about the place: no cilantro. I know that most Japanese people can't stand the stuff so its absence is understandable, but it would have been nice to have a choice.

Posada del Sol
03-5300-9970
4-40-7 Akatsutsumi, Setagaya-ku, Tokyo
Closed Wednesdays

モダン焼

I miss my husband's cooking. Not that my husband ever cooked a lot, but now that he is working at his new job he almost never has the time or energy to do much in the kitchen. Luckily he finally gave in to my begging and agreed to cook dinner tonight, choosing the very thing that I miss the most: okonomiyaki (savoury pancake).

He cooked it at the table on the teppan (tabletop skillet), which helped make it seem less like work and more like fun. Above is his first one: a standard okonomiyaki, with a batter made of flour, grated yamaimo (yam), cabbage, dashi (Japanese stock) powder and benishouga (pickled red ginger) and topped with pork, okonomiyaki sauce and katsuobushi (bonito flakes).

And then he made a special treat: modanyaki (okonomiyaki with noodles). He started by dry sauteing chukamen (chinese style noodles, the same kind as for yakisoba) with a little salt and pepper until they were just a bit crispy.

Next he added okonomiyaki sauce (like a lighter, sweeter version of HP sauce) to the noodles and sauteed them a bit more, then moved them aside and started an okonomiyaki.

The noodles were placed on top of the okonomiyaki, and then more batter was poured on top.

Thinly sliced pork was added on top of that.

The whole thing was flipped over (it takes great skill to keep it all in one peice) and cooked till the pork was crispy.

Then it was flipped over again and drizzled with okonomiyaki sauce.

The sauce was left to cook a bit, then katsuobushi was sprinkled over it and it was cut in two and served. And then he did it a few more times, and we ate until we were stuffed.

I was going to include the recipe, but I've just realized there are already several good okonomiyaki recipes on the web and that modanyaki is simple enough that it doesn't really need its own recipe. This recipe is from a kid's site, but I like it because it has very clear instructions with pictures and includes a recipe for the okonomiyaki sauce. To make it into modanyaki just saute the noodles as above, using my basic instructions. (Note that the recipe in the link doesn't include dashi powder or yamaimo. Neither are necessary but using them will improve the flavour or texture, so add them if you like: a dash of dashi powder and a Tbsp of grated yamaimo will do.)

Keeping warm in Japan

Keeping warm in Japan is always a hassle: not only because Japanese homes are extremely cold compared to those in Canada, but because the clothes here never fit quite right and I often have wrist, ankles and a belly that isn't quite covered.

On one hand, the way the Japanese are able to survive without central heating is admirable and the practice of only heating rooms that are currently being used is very smart. But I think the lack of effective heating in Japan is more to do with habit and ignorance than with any kind of real frugality or concern for the planet. For evidence, all you have to do is check an average Japanese home, where you'll find a host of electronic heating devices. A myriad of space heaters, heated toilet seats, heated carpets, heated mini rugs in the kitchen to keep your feet warm while you cook (and heated mini rugs in the bathroom to keep your feet warm while you labour at a different job), heated mattress pads and blankets, and of course the beloved kotatsu (a low table with a heater built into the bottom, covered with a large blanket to trap in the heat). The price of buying and using those contraptions is not small, and none of them would be necessary at all if homes, or at least rooms, were properly heated to begin with. And it's not just the lack of heating, it's the energy-inefficient way that most dwellings are built: shoddy building materials, thin walls with little or no insulation, and single planed windows are a few examples.

There are a few traditional ways to keep warm in Japan that I approve of whole heartedly, however. One is the haramaki, which I discussed last year. The other is the yutampo, which I've only recently discovered (or rediscovered):

It's nothing more than a hot water bottle, and in like many frugal and low-tech items in Japan it was forgotten and abandoned decades ago. But it has emerged again and thanks to some cute new designs and funky covers (yes, there is a Hello Kitty version) it is now the season's must-have item. Unlike the rectangular rubber versions I remember from Canada, the traditional Japanese yutampo is made of tin, oval in shape and has ribs on each side. Newer versions are made of sturdy plastic, like the one above, which I bought at Muji.

Filled with boiling water and slipped into my bed, it stays hot all night and will still retain enough heat to warm me up throughout a lazy morning, kept on my lap. A more frugal way to use it is to fill it up with bathwater after the evening bath and slip it in bed a few minutes before I get in. This warms up the mattress and covers and although the yutampo cools down eventually, I'm usually asleep long before that.

As for the cold wrists problem, I've finally got that covered (ahem). The solution is just as low-tech and old fashioned as the yutampo: arm warmers. I don't know if these have made a comeback elsewhere, and I can't exactly say they're big in Japan (they are most often found at stores aimed at kids and teenagers). But I've fallen so much in love with them that I can no longer leave the house without a pair.

The bear ones (like I said, these are made for a younger crowd) are my favourite, but my husband finds them highly embarrassing. So out of respect for him I either layer gloves on top of them when we're out together, or wear a plain black pair. But we don't go out too often these days, so I've got my eyes on the Hello Kitty version...

Snowy day

Finally, it's snowing in Tokyo! There hasn't been a real snowfall here in a couple of years, so when I looked out the window this morning and saw a few stray snowflakes falling from the sky I was excited. I didn't expect it to last, but by mid morning it had piled up enough to convince me to head out for a better look. I knew there wouldn't be much time as snow in Tokyo never lasts long, and sure enough the snow flakes turned into rain drops in the afternoon and the snow has all but washed away.

These pictures were taken at our local park. The first flower is tsubaki (camellia), a flower that blooms all winter, and the next two are ume (Japanese apricot blossom), which is just coming into blossom now.

えのきの豚巻き

One of my favourite quick main dishes is nikumaki (meat rolls), which is made of thinly sliced pork or beef rolled around vegetables and braised in soy sauce, sake and mirin. This time I used enoki mushrooms and bannou negi (green onion) with pork cut thicker than usual, and gave it a longer simmer to make the meat nice and tender.

I've posted a nikumaki recipe before, but here is a slightly different one that uses a thicker cut of meat.

えのきの豚巻き (Enoki no Butamaki or Pork rolled with enoki mushrooms)

• 250g or 6 slices pork shoulder, sliced about 3mm thick (labeled shougayaki-you)
• 1 package (about 100g) enoki mushrooms
• 6 bannou negi (thin green onions)
• salt and pepper
• 1 Tbsp vegetable oil
• 3 Tbsp each: sake, mirin, soy sauce
• 100 ml dashi

Remove ends from bannou negi, cut whites and greens into 8 cm (3 inches) lengths. Cut hard ends from enoki so stalks are same length as negi, divide into 6 bundles.

Lay pork slices on cutting board, sprinkle with salt and pepper. Lay sliced bannou negi and enoki mushrooms at one end of the slices, roll up tightly and secure with a toothpick.

Heat oil in a pan, add the rolls and brown on all sides over medium-high heat. Add the sake, mirin, soy sauce and dashi, bring boil. Reduce heat to medium-low, cover pan, and simmer turning rolls occasionally. Cook for 20 minutes or until meat is tender (to test, remove one roll to cutting board, slice off one end, and to taste).

Remove rolls to cutting board and let sit, when cool enough to handle slice in half or thirds and arrange on plate. Meanwhile, reduce liquid over high heat until thickened, pour over niku maki.

Nabe

Finally, the year's first nabe (hotpot). This was a typical one, with a mixture of vegetables, seafood and pork (no matter how much the other ingredients vary, we always have to have pork).

On the plate in front: thinly sliced pork belly; salmon; harusame (glass noodles). Bamboo plate at right: mochi (rice cake); negi (long onion); carrot; maitake mushrooms; spinach. In the donabe (clay pot) is kombu dashi (kelp broth) and mixed with a little leftover tai dashi (sea bream broth from the tai chazuke I cooked a few days ago), and in our bowls is a dip made of oroshi daikon (grated daikon radish), ponzu (citrus soy sauce) thinly sliced negi and yuzu koshou (yuzu citrus with green chilies).

Here are some cooked ingredients, cooling down in the tangy dip. Looking at this picture I'm already getting hungry again. I'm going to have to do nabe again soon...

鯛茶漬け

This is my attempt to recreate the wonderful tai chazuke (rice topped with sea bream broth) my mother-in-law made a few weeks back. Not quite as good, as expected: I used the typical farmed tai commonly sold in Tokyo, and it's different enough from the wild tai of the Seto Inland Sea to be classified as a whole other fish. It also wasn't grilled first, so it lacked the kobashisa (a deep, charred fragrance) of the original, made from grilled fish.

Still, it was pretty damn tasty. I used tai no ara (sea bream scraps, in this case the head and spine) and got a very nice dashi (broth), but little meat. With tai no ara this was a great economical dish, but I'd like to try this with a meatier cut or even a whole bream.

It's hard to give an exact recipe as the quality and quantity of fish will vary a lot, so I'll just give a few guidelines.

First, the way my mother-in-law did it. She started with leftovers of tai no shioyaki (salt-grilled sea bream). After we'd eaten our fill, the remaining meat was picked from the bones. The bones, including the head, were simmered in kombu dashi (kelp broth) for about 30 minutes then removed from the broth (no salt was added as the original salt-grilling left enough salt in the bones was enough to flavour the broth). The leftover flakes of meat were added to the broth and warmed up. Then the broth was ladled over a bowl of hot rice, with the final ladleful full of meat, and chopped mitsuba (trefoil) was added.

When using raw ara, a little more preparation is required to remove overly fishy odors. First make the kombu dashi: add a large piece of kombu (kelp) to a pot of water and let soak for about 30 minutes (it can soak for several hours if you want to start early). Bring it slowly to a simmer over low heat and remove the kombu just before the boil.

Meanwhile, in a large colander, arrange the ara in a single layer and sprinkle with salt on both sides and let sit for 30 minutes. Bring a large kettle or pot of water to boil, and pour it over the ara. Drain and add the ara to the kombu dashi.

Simmer about 30 minutes, occasionally skimming the foam that develops. Drain well and let the ara cool, then pick out any meat, making sure it is free of scales and small bones. Discard the ara, return meat to broth, add salt to taste. Ladle over hot rice and top with mitsuba, nori seaweed, or kinome (leaves of sansho, a relative of sichuan pepper).

That's about it. Very rough instructions, but it's such a simple dish that it would be hard to go wrong. There's no reason why this wouldn't work with other delicate white-fleshed fish, and you can add your own flavourings as you like.

Corn bread and chili con carne

The weather has finally turned cold enough for something I've been craving a while: chile con carne with cornbread. Now, I know people have strong feelings about chili and the kind we eat in southern Ontario is quite a bit different from the authentic versions found elsewhere. But I love my chili and so does my husband and it does seem authentic to me, in the sense that it's nearly identical to the chili my mother makes. The only differences are the beans: I use soy beans, which don't have the same malodorous side effects as other beans, to replace all or some of the kidney beans. And this time, thanks to comments on my last chili post, I supplemented the ground meat (I used pork as it's so much cheaper) with bite sized chunks of stewing beef. And I'm so glad I did, as this was the best chili I've made so far.

I've also perfected my cornbread since my first attempt last year. I had started out wanting to make an authentic southern-style cornbread, with no flour or sugar, but was less than impressed with the results. Part of the reason was that lacked a proper cast iron skillet, and I've since found a couple of 15 cm (6 inch) mini skillets at the 100 yen shop. They are tiny and make great single-sized servings, and they create a wonderful crust. But probably the main reason I didn't love my first attempt is that cornbread is just not something I grew up with, and I've never even tasted real southern cornbread before. So since I haven't developed a taste for cornbread I needed to start gently, and now after a bit of tinkering with recipes I've finally found one that I like. I'll admit that I do add a tiny bit of sugar, but really, what can you expect from a Canuck in Japan?

Anyway, the recipe is below, but first a few notes. I don't specify the cornmeal because it's not easily available here and all I've tried this recipe with is fine yellow cornmeal; I'm sure it would be fine with other types. The cast iron skillet essential for a good crust but if you can't find one try an oven-safe glass baking dish or muffin tins. A 22 to 25 cm (9 or 10 inch) skillet or baking dish will cook this in one go, smaller dishes or muffin tins will require a few batches-- pour batter until dish is about 3/4 full. Buttermilk is not available in Japan so I use this substitute: add 450 (2 cups minus 2 Tbsp) milk to a microwave safe bowl, warm slightly in the microwave, add 2 Tbsp vinegar and let sit for about 5 minutes, until thickened. Yogurt thinned with a bit of milk can also be used. The stone-ground cornmeal is purely optional but highly recommended as it will make the crust extra-crispy.

Buttermilk cornbread

• 470 ml (2 cups) corn meal
• 120 ml (1/2 cup) all-purpose flour
• 1 tsp baking powder
• 1/2 tsp baking soda
• 1 tsp salt
• 1 Tbsp sugar
• 1 egg, lightly beaten
• 470 ml (2 cups) buttermilk
• 2 Tbsp melted butter or bacon fat, plus about 1 Tbsp for greasing pan
• 1 to 2 Tbsp course stone-ground cornmeal, optional

Crease a cast iron skillet, baking dish or muffin tin with 1 Tbsp butter or bacon grease, place in oven, and preheat oven to 230 C (450 F). Combine the dry ingredients in a large bowl. In a separate bowl, mix the egg, buttermilk and melted butter or fat. Pour the buttermilk mixture into the dry ingredients and stir quickly to moisten. Do not over mix; there should be a few lumps.

Remove the skillet from oven, add the stone-ground cornmeal, if using, and swirl to coat bottom and sides of pan. Pour in the batter into the hot skillet and bake for 25 minutes (about 15 minutes for muffins and 20 minutes if using a mini skillet like mine), or until it is golden and a toothpick inserted in the centre comes out clean.

Serve it in the pan to keep cornbread warm, wrap any leftovers and keep in fridge. Great for sopping up soups, stews and cooking juices; topped with butter; or plain, straight from the fridge.

As for the chili recipe, you'll have to ask my mom.

Kagami biraki

One of the many preparations for New Years in Japan is the displaying of kagami mochi, which was traditionally two round slabs of mochi (rice cake) placed on an altar. As homes grew warmer in Japan, the mochi tended to get moldy instead of drying out, and at the same time fewer and fewer people bother to make their own mochi. So now lots of people buy pre-formed kagami mochi conveniently encased in plastic. Kagami mochi is meant to sit on a wooden altar, be topped with a daidai (a small, sour member of the citrus family) and be strewn with a variety of auspicious decorations. These days most people make do with a regular old mikan (mandarin) and the plastic kagami mochi usually includes as few decorations and a cardboard altar. Our kagami mochi, shown above, is fairly typical (except that it's mixed up with Christmas decorations, which are normally taken down as soon as Christmas is over-- often on Christmas Day itself).

The kagami mochi is displayed until January 11th, which is the day for kagami biraki: the cutting of the mochi.  It is then eaten, often in oshiruko (a sweet soup made with adzuki beans). My boss, Mrs. K, makes excellent oshiruko and this year gave me  a little to take home, so after cutting up our mochi we had the oshiruko along with the isobe yaki (grilled mochi wrapped in a sheet of nori seaweed) I'd been planning.

Nothing is easier to make than isobe yaki. Just grill the mochi in the toaster oven (watch it carefully though, as it's liable to suddenly puff up and it will burn if you don't smoosh it back down) until soft all the way through, dip it in soy sauce, and lay it on a piece of nori. Mochi happens to go very nicely with cheese, so as a special treat add a slice of cheese to the mochi when it's almost finished cooking; as soon as it melts you can proceed.

After New Year's

It was inevitable: my husband doesn't consider a visit home complete without at least one wagyu (Japanese beef) feast, so we took a bread from all the seafood and pigged out on teppanyaki (food cooked on a table-top griddle).

The star of the meal was a big pile of very well marbled and thinly sliced beef, but there was also tofu, nama-fu (wheat gluten cakes), cabbage, shiitake, shimeji mushrooms, eringi mushrooms, and hampen (fish paste cakes).

Once cooked it was dipped into a mixture of daikon oroshi (grated daikon) and ponzu (citrus soy sauce) and you better believe it tasted fantastic. The beef will almost certainly be the best we'll have all year, so it's kind of a bummer to know that it's all downhill from January 3rd. We definitely weren't complaining at the time though.

On the fourth day of the year I'd recovered enough to go out for a bit, so we all drove out to Kiyoshikoujin Seichouji, a temple near the Takarazuka theatre in Hyogo Prefecture, for hatsumoude (the first visit of the year to a shrine or temple). After offering our prayers for the new year we bought omikuji (fortunes), and I got stuck with kyou (bad luck). Good thing I don't believe in silly stuff like that, or I might be in for a bad year.

Or maybe it was true after all: shortly afterwards we stopped by a soba shop for lunch. My in-laws had been there before and said it was good, but after waiting over half an hour out in the cold we were treated to a mediocre meal. It seems the shop follows the despicable practice of subsituting inferior ingredients on busy days: although usually the shop only sells teuchi (handmade in-house) soba noodles, on this day the the regular menu items all came with noodles purchased elsewhere. Only the more expensive lunch special came with teuchi noodles, but there were no signs or notices on the wall warning customers of this. We only found out because one of us happened to order the special and it was completely different from everyone else's, which prompted us to ask the waitress. Who cheerfully explained the sneaky substitution.

That night's dinner more than made up for the crappy lunch, and was of a kind I really love: many little dishes of various treats served with endless bowls of rice. Delicious, sweet, fluffy rice, the kind I never seem capable of making at home. This was an especially fancy version of the many little dishes type of meal, with ikura (salmon roe) and mentaiko (spicy cod roe) included in the already impressive spread.

And the next day we flew back to Tokyo, and on the bus home from the airport enjoyed some pretty nice views-- it was already dark and Tokyo looks so much nicer at night. Sadly all my attempts at pictures came out fuzzy, but I kind of like the way the lights on the building above look all spiky.

Osechi

The first meal of the new year is osechi, traditional food that is eaten to ensure a good year. They are heavily seasoned in order to keep well, and are supposed to be eaten at every meal for the first three days in order to give the women of the house a break. My in-laws just eat it for breakfast and lunch, and don't bother with the elaborate layered boxes tightly packed with a myriad of colourful little morsels (these pictures will give you an idea of what typical osechi looks like). Osechi is widely hated in Japan, as the flavours are too sweet and heavy and eating it non stop for three days is tiresome. So my mother-in-law only serves the dishes that everyone likes, served in a lovely set of dishes atop a lazy suzan. And as she keeps most of the osechi in the refrigerator she uses a lighter hand with the seasonings.

This is kazunoko (herring roe), which symbolizes fertility and prosperity.

Kobumaki (kelp rolls) is eaten to bring happiness in the new year.

Datemaki (rolled omelet) resemble rolled scrolls so symbolize wisdom and academic success.

This is tainoko (sea bream roe) which I've never seen anywhere except my mother-in-law's table. It is eaten for the same reasons as kazunoko and is my favourite osechi.

Ozoni is a soup made with mochi (rice cake) and each region, or even each family has its own way to make it. My in-laws use a clear broth with vegetables and chicken, with the mochi cut in squares (most families in the Kansai area use round mochi).

We also eat kamaboko (steamed fish paste), gomame (tiny dried fish "caramelized" in sweet soy sauce), kuromame (simmered black beans), kuri kinton (chestnuts in sweet potato mash) and a few more kinds of sweet beans. I am not crazy about the sweeter forms of osechi and this year I was a very naughty girl and skipped them entirely (you are supposed to try a little of everything). But I'm pretty sure I ate enough overall to make up for it-- more than enough. Overindulgence in mochi, alcohol and other high-calorie treats causes almost everyone in Japan to begin the new year with a few kilograms of extra flesh, and I am no exception.

I think you can guess what my new year's resolution is.

Dinners on the first three nights involve a different kind of osechi: savoury foods with less sweetness and bolder flavours, all the better to match alcohol.

The first dinner is always yaki tai: grilled sea bream. It is bought already prepared (like most Japanese, my in-laws don't have an oven big enough to do the job) and is of a quality hard to find here in Tokyo, caught wild in the Seto Inland Sea. It is delicious and suitably festive, as it needs to be "carved" at the table by my father-in-law, just like roast turkeys and hams do in other parts of the world. Along with it are dishes of other wonderful treats like the uma-ni from the night before, tori no hakkakuni (chicken braised with star anise), and homemade kimchi. As I was sick and usually pretty tired by the evening I didn't take pictures this year, but here is a picture of last year's tai.

The next morning's ozoni is made not of chicken broth, but of broth made from the bones and leftover meat from the tai. The delicate, subtle flavour of the tai is balanced with a deep flavour from the charred skin and the resulting ozoni is a dish that I look forward to all year.

This time, perhaps because my appetite was a little less voracious than usual, there was plenty of broth leftover, and lots of tai meat from the night before. So it was used up at lunch as tai chazuke, a variation of ochazuke. Ochazuke is hot tea poured over rice, usually with with wasabi, umeboshi (pickled plum), flaked salmon or other flavourings. Tai chazuke replaces the tea with tai broth, creating a richer, more filling dish. To top it off, flakes of leftover tai meat and chopped mitsuba (trefoil) were added.

If I thought tai ozoni was the best New Year's dish, it was only because I'd never tried tai chazuke: I have a new favourite now. And I'm not going to wait all year to try it again, either. Despite Tokyo's inferior seafood, it shouldn't be too hard to create something similar at home. Can't wait.

年賀状

This year's nengajou (new year's postcard). Pretty lame, but I was way too busy this year to make it with stamps as I usually do and it just so happened that Hideaki got me a photo printer form Christmas so I caved in and printed them (just like 90% of people here do). The one in the picture was the practice run, so those two lines at the top aren't in the good ones.

We only had a few hours to do it so we used a free image we found online-- not the coolest design but the best we could find. To make it just a little more personal I wrote "Happy New Year" by hand and added a sticker or two, and the blank space is for a short individual message (in Japan the back of the postcard is for addresses only, so all correspondence must be done on the front.

And wouldn't you know it, after all that work they were mailed late. Between getting home from ski camp and leaving for Osaka I only had 8 hours to unpack, re-pack and sleep, so not surprisingly I forgot to pack the half-finished postcards (we usually finish writing the addresses in Osaka). Nengajou are best finished and mailed before New Year's Eve so they can arrive on the first day of the year, or at least within the first three days. Ours will be a week late, a major breach of etiquette-- I hope we are forgiven.

2008 is nezumi doshi, or the Year of the Mouse. "Nezumi" actually means both mouse and rat in Japanese (which I can't quite fathom as to me they are two completely different creatures) so I'm not sure what the official English translation is. Somehow in Japan "nezumi doshi" is usually translated as "Year of the Mouse" and most references to "Year of the Rat" seem to be Chinese in origin. So although both countries use the same zodiac there are slight differences between the two countries (for example, last year was the Year of the Pig in China but the Year of the Boar in Japan). Can anyone help clear this up?

Anyway, I'd like to wish all of you a Happy New Year!

New Year's Eve

So Hideaki and I arrived at his parent's house in Northern Osaka on December 30th, and on that day there was another arrival: 3 crabs from Hokkaido, where my brother-in-law lives. We haven't seen him in years, but apparently he still remembers he has a family and last New Year's he sent us some crabs. It seems word got back to him that we liked them so he did the same thing again this time, and we're hoping it becomes a tradition. It would be great if he himself could make it down for a visit, but as long as the seafood keeps coming I have little complaint.

On the left is a tarabagani (king crab) and on the right are two kegani (literally "hairy crab", called horsehair crab in English), both arriving boiled but very fresh. The picture makes them look quite small but keep in mind they are on large serving platters.

Here is a closer look at the kegani, just in case you were wondering where the name comes from.

Before eating they were broken up, with the body served along with the legs. There is plenty of good meat in a crab's body, not to mention the kanimiso (tomalley), and in Japan it is all eaten as-is or dipped in ponzu (citrus soy sauce). Which is exactly how we did it, and it tasted so good I had no wish for the garlic butter we use back home.

Kegani is probably the best-loved crab in Japan, due to its delicate flavour and rich kanimiso, and last year we all agreed that the kegani was superior (although I think kegani loses points for the way the flesh flakes out the shell rather than staying in one big, juicy piece). This year, strangely enough, the opposite was true: both the meat and kanimiso of the tarabagani was better. Do crabs have good and bad vintages? Both were fantastic, mind you, so it was a close call and we were happy just to have the rare chance to compare two types of crab.