My father's hunger

At my childhood kitchen table, in broken English and Japanese, my father taught me about family, the past and the poignant pleasures of food.

Editor's note: The following is excerpted from "Bento Box in the Heartland: My Japanese Girlhood in Whitebread America" by Linda Furiya.

By Linda Furiya

Read more: Japan, Immigration, Life, Eat and Drink, Food and Travel

Jan. 2, 2007 | My father had a theory on how to get my brothers and me to eat new foods. All we had to do was taste the dish three times, but not at one sitting. By the fourth time, he claimed, our palates would have grown accustomed to the new taste and texture and we'd be ready for a full serving. I can't say that his theory worked every time, but more often than not it nudged my taste buds toward unusual foods, such as salty, gritty-textured toronako (fish roe) and strong-flavored, oily saba (mackerel). The strategy worked better than the guerrilla tactics some of my friends' parents used, such as expecting their kids to finish a heaping plate of liver and onions, as though they inherently enjoyed the stinky dish.

It was my father's father, Jinnosuke, who inspired this method and who, Dad claimed, taught him how to eat. Not the mechanics of eating, such as how to use chopsticks or cut meat with a dinner knife, but the spiritual aspect of eating thoughtfully, mindful of the source, and pacing oneself as in meditation or praying. Dad learned from his father, and passed down to my brothers and me, an appreciation of eating as a smorgasbord for the senses, a boost to the spirit, a conduit of memories. According to family lore, my grandfather had such a seductive, ravenous way of eating that anyone sitting with him at the table who saw the way he savored each morsel, the expression of pure pleasure he wore, would suddenly feel hungry. In the same way that you might feel calmed by a person who's deep in meditation, by the expression of peace showing in his or her sitting posture and face, my grandfather inspired people to appreciate food. In my family, this was considered the ultimate compliment.

My grandfather was an elusive apparition who passed in and out of Dad's conversations. Dad described him with the reverence and respect one would use to describe a fallen hero, but his stories were spiked with undertones of resentment and a kind of longing so strong, it was like an ember that could never be extinguished. In some people, the sight and feel of a bauble or a certain scent in a room can set off a string of memories. For Dad, it was always food -- the setting of a meal or its sensual characteristics -- that struck a chord of nostalgia.

The summer after I turned eight was unseasonably cool, as if spring and its rains had decided to stay a while longer. It was the perfect weather to enjoy yakiniku.

Under Dad and Mom's watchful eyes, my brothers and I were each designated a square area of space on the long griddle and a plate holding a stack of thinly sliced sirloin and vegetables to cook and eat as we pleased. It was a very busy affair as five pairs of chopsticks crisscrossed to lay down, flip over, or pick up the seared meat and vegetables.

It was not until the second or third batch of grilling that the pan was perfectly seasoned with the meat juices, producing a beautifully seared surface to cook on. The beef, its cobweb of fat and red-striated meat spreading out like a scarlet gossamer lace handkerchief, shivered and shrank on the hot pan. Tendrils of smoke and the smell of charred beef lingered in the dining room.

It was a rare meal where everyone was present. When Dad had a day off from work, his relaxed appearance at the foot of the table, usually empty at most dinners, put us all in a jovial, lighthearted mood. That night, even Mom, who often remained in the kitchen cooking and serving food through the end of dinner, was seated at the table, good-naturedly teasing and joking, indulging in rice wine from a traditional square cedar sake cup.

Dad peered at the tough, shriveled meat I had taken off the pan. He shook his head disapprovingly.

"Good that Jinnosuke not here to see this." He waved his chopsticks at my meat, the dirty gray hue of an old washcloth.

"I like it this way," I retorted. It didn't occur to me that he thought I was ruining a good piece of meat. My parents chastised us for the usual things, such as not covering our mouths when we coughed, but rarely for our style of eating, as long as it wasn't wasteful or terribly unappetizing to watch. He glanced again at my beef, now reduced to the color of gray asphalt with a floppy consistency. "Nothing made Jinnosuke sadder than overcooked meat."

Ignoring his comment, I dipped the beef in my bowl of sauce, a piquant mix of soy sauce, green onions, minced ginger, and my favorite, a good squeeze of fresh lemon juice. To prove to Dad that it was fine, I ate it. The once-pink marbled tissue of sirloin resembled a crisp brown autumn leaf. The meat flavor was nonexistent, and I was tasting mostly the rich, savory dipping sauce, in which the most dominant taste was the clean, spicy notes of grated daikon radish that reverberated from the tip of the tongue to the back of my throat.

Dad ate all his meals with vigor and passion, as if each were his last. He hated eating in a hurry as much as his father despised overcooked meat. Instead, Dad lingered over every sip of wine or bite of food throughout the duration of a meal. He paused between bites, resting his chopsticks across his rice bowl as he decided which delicacy he would taste next. Dad admired the whole meal placed in front of him and then studied each dish, appreciating its appearance and aroma. He may have eaten a dish a hundred times, but he approached each meal anew, as if he had never before tasted what lay in front of him.

As he enjoyed the special foods -- the first vegetables of summer, or a nicely cooked piece of fresh fish, or homemade tofu -- he'd close his eyes to better focus his senses on the experience. Sometimes when he opened them, his eyes would shine as if he had just experienced a thrilling roller coaster ride.

As I reached for more slices of meat, Dad, who was no longer able to bear watching me cook, reached for my stack with the length of his chopsticks and said, "Back in Jinnosuke's day, yakiniku was very expensive. Not everybody could afford to order beef in a restaurant, especially rib eye. When I was your age, Jinnosuke told me that meat should barely be cooked on each side. Taste better this way. Let me show you."

"Must be very hot," Dad continued, holding the palm of his hand over the griddle's surface to check the heat.

"Grill one side. Jaa! Not too long time. Like that." He imitated the sound of sizzling meat.

"Don't wait, don't hesitate, just turn it over. Jaa!" Dad flipped the steaming piece of meat into my sauce bowl. Unlike my wilted piece, the full-bodied taste of the beef coated my mouth with flavor, the same way the tannins of fine red wine would when I was old enough to appreciate it. The slight tang of rare meat remained after I'd swallowed. From then on, jaa-jaa became my way of cooking yakiniku.

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When I was eight years old, every day after school from my bedroom window I would watch the melancholy, inky-blue sky fade to complete darkness as fall welcomed winter in its place.

The first frost of the season was expected. In the vegetable garden, the last few remaining hakusai cabbages were draped in plastic, an indication that our meals would be heavy with the sweet, hearty leaves.

On a cold evening, the perfect end to a meal was a bowl of tamago gohan (rice and egg porridge). The rice porridge was my comfort food, like chicken noodle soup was for my friends. Japanese mothers fed their children this porridge when they had a cold or were recovering from the flu. The essential flavors of the porridge came from the rich broth that remained after chicken-nabe, a one-pot chicken and Chinese cabbage dish. It was unusual for Dad to cook, but chicken-nabe was his specialty, and the ingredients and dark wintry weather at hand suited this meal. Like the yakiniku, chicken-nabe is a communal meal prepared at the table, where those joining in can help themselves to the cooked chicken parts and hakusai cabbage as they please.

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