Japanese Farm Food

A traditional Japanese meal does not end with dessert, but most Western meals do, so many restaurants in Japan have adopted the Western model. Some serve fruit at the end of the meal and some serve an actual dessert, though usually something small and simple, more often than not ice cream.

Japanese love their tea breaks at ten and three, and this is when they eat sweets. That custom is deeply ingrained in the cultural fabric of Japan and originates from the farmer’s need to rest, regain energy, and connect with family members or neighbors. Another custom that persists today is the custom of presenting tea and sweets (or fruit) to guests as soon as they sit down.

Rather than go the conventional macha, kinako, or azuki ice cream route, I felt fruit ice creams with a high milk-to-cream ratio would be more in keeping with the fruit-at-the-end-of-the-meal concept. I chose fruits that are grown commonly in Japan, many of which are also grown on our farm. It is difficult to find organic fruit in Japan, but we do have local growers producing berries, apricots, plums, kiwis, peaches, loquats, and melons. And we are most fortunate to have access to a stunning array of gorgeous citrus from our eighty-five-year-old friend Mochizuki-san, a character in her own right. We grow (or have grown) several kinds of fruit—apples, persimmons, Meyer lemons, daidai (sour oranges), yuzu, sudachi, natsumikan, kumquat, loquat, ume (sour plums), peaches, apricots, raspberries, blueberries—but caterpillars, unpredictable weather, and disease affect the success rate of our variable harvests. And some of the trees have died, not to be planted again. Desire is often more than our energy level (or hours in the day).

But a book on Japanese farm food would not be complete without some traditional Japanese sweets. When guests arrive, the hosts and guests drop to their knees and exchange bows of greeting (traditional farm people, that is; modern urbanites or the younger generations do not adhere strictly to this cultural norm). Everyone takes a seat on square cushions (zabuton) set around a low table on the tatami-matted floor. The hostess immediately brings out fresh fruit cut up into wedges that one spears up with toothpicks to eat. Some sort of packaged sweet, or store-bought confection, or perhaps rice crackers (senbei) are also de rigueur, though on cultural celebration days such as New Year (oshogatsu), Children’s Day (kodomo no hi), Day of the Dead (obon), and Full Moon Festival (jugoya), traditional sweets are prepared in farm households. In our house ohagi and manju were the main sweets, depending on the holiday.

I have included desserts that are in keeping with the spirit of and are complementary with a Japanese meal as well as a few traditional sweets that should be served with tea midmorning or midafternoon.

OUR CITRUS GROWER

We “met” over the phone (she’s a bit of a phone queen).

“Mama!” she would boom at the other end of the receiver . . . not my favorite name, but I gave up correcting her.

When the boys were still small but no longer babies, I began to seek out the life I had had in mind when I married. First, I took the boys to France (that was a start), and second I began making more and more preserves (from confit to marmalade). In those days, I still left the Japanese pickles to my mother-in-law.

At the outset we ordered the organic citrus fruit through a natural farming group, but as the years went on, we began calling the grower directly. And she would call us back to check how we liked it. Her name is Mochizuki-san and she was seventy-two at the time.

In the fall of 2000 we moved into my parents-in-law’s farmhouse, which we had recently renovated. And I remember fielding calls from Mochizuki-san during Christmas dinners. I stood in the fax closet so I could hear better and didn’t have the heart to tell her we had guests. Her husband was in the end stages of a battle with cancer, and she needed to talk.

So we talked. And talked. And thus the relationship grew. Eventually her family and our family met up halfway in Atami for the day. Later she came to visit us by train. We returned the visit by plane and boat, bringing along my father and stepmother. Mochizuki-san lives on an island near Hiroshima in the Seto Inland Sea. Her son and daughter-in-law live on the same property but do not help with the citrus growing and there are only a few other organic growers on the island, none of whom are young. I am in awe of Mochizuki-san’s drive to keep growing, despite her increasing years, and consequently am energized and that much more thankful for the fruit she sends. And her Herculean efforts give me that much more desire to create citrus desserts or preserves.

I rarely use chocolate; no need with that gorgeous citrus. It beckons me and beguiles me. I want to use it. No, I am compelled to use it. The fruit tastes so good, even if you flub the dessert, it will still be wonderful. But each year I wonder if this will be the last year for Mochizuki-san to send us citrus.

I adapted this recipe (slightly) from Lindsey Shere’s Chez Panisse Desserts, just about the only dessert book I ever use these days. Her recipes transform fruit into desserts that still taste like the fruit itself. Fruit of any kind is really the most orthodox of desserts in Japan, but fruit ice cream is always welcome. (Japanese are big consumers of ice cream.) Try to use unwaxed or organic fruit, since you will be using the peel to infuse the custard.

tangerine ice cream MAKES ABOUT 1 QUART (1 LITER)

MIKAN AISU

4 organic tangerines

⅔ cup (135 g) organic granulated sugar

½ cup (125 cc) milk

4 large egg yolks, at room temperature

2 cups (500 cc) heavy cream

A few drops of vanilla extract

Slice off the outside peel layer of 2 tangerines with a sharp knife or vegetable peeler, working in a circular fashion. Be careful not to remove any of the bitter white pith.

Measure the sugar and milk into a heavy-bottomed nonaluminum saucepan, drop in the tangerine peels, and heat over medium-high heat until just before the mixture reaches a boil. Remove from the heat and let sit, covered, for 10 minutes to extract the flavor from the peel.

Whisk a few ladles of warm milk mixture into the yolks and return to the saucepan. Heat over low heat, stirring, until the custard has thickened slightly (see here).

Strain directly into a plastic container. With a Microplane, finely grate the peel of the 2 remaining tangerines directly onto the warm custard. While you are waiting for the custard to suck up the flavor of the zest (about 5 minutes), juice the tangerines. Stir the cream, 6 tablespoons tangerine juice, and vanilla into the warm custard.

Cool to room temperature, then chill overnight in a plastic container. Freeze according to the directions of your ice-cream maker.

VARIATION: Substitute any kind of orange-like citrus for the tangerines.

ICE CREAM

Ice cream can be made with all cream or a combination of cream and milk. Ice milk is made from cow or soy milk. Ice cream or ice milk may or may not contain eggs. Some part of the cream or milk is usually heated, though American backyard hand-cranked ice cream allows you to dump all the ingredients into the ice cream hopper (no eggs) and just crank away. Other than the creamless soy milk “ice cream” on one end of the spectrum and the full-cream fig and blackberry ice creams on the other, almost all of the ice cream recipes here are adjusted from the original 2 : 1 ratio of cream and milk to 1 : 1. In general, a lighter ice cream works best at the end of a Japanese meal. Also pairing a scoop of ice cream with a scoop of sorbet is a brilliant flavor presentation. The sorbet and ice cream could be of the same fruit or perhaps complementary ones. Keep it simple.

There are some basic rules of thumb to follow for all ice cream or ice milk recipes presented in this book, so please heed the following advice:

For Egg Yolks: Crack the eggs into a small bowl, gently lift out the yolks with your fingers, and slide into a medium-sized bowl. Discard the whites and shells or use the whites to make a meringue or any other fluffy confection. Whisk a soup ladle or so of the warm milk mixture into the yolks (otherwise the yolks will curdle when you introduce them cold turkey into the warm cream mixture) and return to the heavy-bottomed saucepan.

Cooking Custard: Heat over low heat, stirring constantly with a flat wooden spoon, until the custard has thickened and coats the back of the spoon when you drag a finger through the lingering “batter” clinging to the spoon. Timing here depends on several variables: the amount of custard you are making, the thickness of the pan (thicker enameled cast iron pans will cook the custard quickly), and your heat source. It is important to watch carefully as the custard changes.

Straining and Cooling Custard: Remove from the heat and continue stirring for a couple of minutes, then pour through a fine-mesh strainer directly into a plastic container. Drape a clean kitchen towel over the warm custard and let cool (this avoids condensation on the inside top of the container that may introduce unwanted water into the mixture). When cool, remove the towel, cover with the container lid, and refrigerate overnight.

Freezing: “Follow the directions that come with your ice-cream maker” is sort of a given, but what really useful advice do those directions impart? One good rule of thumb is not to fill your ice-cream maker container more than halfway. If you are making ice cream on a hot day and do not have a freezer unit built into the machine, churn the custard in the early morning or cool evening. In general, the ice cream is done when it starts to mound up around the churning blades and the surface breaks slightly. If you need to freeze in batches, be sure to mix each batch into the previous batches so the ice cream is evenly emulsified and not layered by batch. An ice-cream maker with a built-in freezing unit is highly recommended for producing ice cream effortlessly.

Serving: High-milk-content “ice creams” tend to be difficult to serve when frozen rock solid, so soften them a little before serving.

Storing: As a general rule of thumb, ice creams and sorbets keep well for several weeks or more.

I love the idea of serving a scoop of sorbet kissing a scoop of ice cream made from the same fruit. Simple, but so logical, this kind of dessert satisfies the longing for a bit of fruit at the end of the meal and also successfully combines creamy with icy textures, two dessert textures to which I am particularly drawn (along with crunch). Stick a piece of Sesame Brittle in the ice cream and you’ll have all three.

tangerine sorbet MAKES ABOUT 1 QUART (1 LITER)

MIKAN SHABETTO

4½ pounds (2 kg) organic sour-tasting tangerines

1 cup (200 g) organic granulated sugar

Wipe the tangerines and grate the peel of one with a lemon zester that creates thin shreds, or use a wide-bladed Microplane for a finer texture. Grate the peel directly into a small bowl in order to catch the precious citrus oil as well as the zest. Do not grate as far as the bitter white pith.

Juice all of the tangerines and strain out the seeds through a wide-mesh strainer set over a medium-sized bowl. Push against the sides of the strainer with the back of a wooden spoon to force as much of the pulp as possible into the juice.

Heat the sugar and 1 cup (250 cc) of the juice into a heavy-bottomed, nonreactive saucepan. Heat over medium-high heat, stirring, until the sugar has dissolved. Mix the sweetened hot juice into the unheated tangerine juice, scrape in the tangerine zest, and chill. Freeze according to the directions of your ice-cream maker.

VARIATION: Substitute any kind of orange-like citrus for the tangerines.

Sometimes we take field trips with the little SSU! preschoolers up to Yamaki, our local organic soy sauce, miso, and tofu place. Tsunokake-san conducts a tour in English (we’re an English-only immersion program). After the tour, the kids get to taste some tofu and also make some of their own. After the tasting and tofu making, we troop downstairs and make fresh rice balls from the rice steamer full of hot rice that we’ve brought. Wrapped with crispy nori, they are delicious. And after lunch we troop back in for the last treat of the day: soy milk “ice cream.” My version has a large milk percentage so it marries well with the bright flavor of poached kumquats. The black sesame seeds complete the eye-catching color palette.

soy milk “ice cream” with poached kumquats and black sesame MAKES ABOUT 1 QUART (1 LITER)

TONYU AISU TO KINKAN

2 cups (500 cc) milk

1 cup (250 cc) best-quality unflavored soy milk

¾ cup (150 g) sugar

3 large egg yolks, at room temperature

2 tablespoons black sesame seeds, for garnish

Poached Kumquats (recipe follows)

POACHED KUMQUATS

½ pound (225 g) kumquats

½ cup (100 g) organic granulated sugar

Measure the milk, soy milk, and sugar into a heavy-bottomed saucepan, and heat, stirring, over medium-high heat until the sugar has melted. Turn the heat down to low.

Whisk a soup ladle or so of warm milk mixture into the yolks and return to the saucepan. Heat over low heat, stirring, until the custard has thickened slightly (see here). Strain, cool to room temperature, and chill overnight in the fridge.

Freeze according to the directions of your ice-cream maker.

Toast the black sesame seeds in a small dry frying pan over medium-high heat until the seeds start to pop. Be sure to shake the pan constantly and occasionally lift it off the heat to keep the seeds from burning. When done, pour into a small bowl to cool, otherwise the seeds will continue cooking in the hot pan (and most likely burn). Toasted sesame seeds will keep in a sealed container for a week or so.

Scoop 2 small mounds of soy milk “ice cream” onto a pretty saucer for each person. Top with a spoonful of poached kumquats (with some of the syrup) and sprinkle with toasted black sesame seeds. Serve immediately.

Wipe the kumquats and slice into ⅛- to ¼-inch (3- to 6- cm) rounds. Discard the ends.

Measure the sugar into a small heavy saucepan and add 1 cup (250 cc) water. Bring to a boil over medium heat, stirring to help dissolve the sugar. Add the sliced kumquats and lower the heat to a gentle simmer. Cook for about 10 minutes, until translucent. Scrape into a plastic container or jar and let cool to room temperature before storing in the fridge. Keeps for a few weeks.

VARIATION: Reverse the proportions of soy milk and milk, or use only soy milk for a nondairy version. Omit the eggs if you like, but the result will be much icier.

During the summer of 2011 I got a call from a Japanese acquaintance who asked if I would be willing to do a photo shoot with Todd Selby at our farm and school in early August. Up to my eyeballs writing recipes, nonetheless I couldn’t say no. Our potatoes were exceptionally good that year (and we still hadn’t finished digging them up), so I thought it would be fun to haul the SSU! Saturday kids over to the potato field to do a little digging.

Japanese-style potato salad with thinly sliced raw red okra, chopped green peppers, and Tadaaki’s homegrown onions would pair well with some barbecued chicken teriyaki and cherry tomato halves dressed with a miso vinaigrette and shiso threads. And what better than a purply-red ice cream made from local blackberries for dessert?

blackberry ice cream MAKES ABOUT 1 QUART (1 LITER)

KIICHIGO AISU

3 cups (600 g) blackberries

2 cups (500 cc) heavy cream

¾ cup (150 g) granulated sugar

A few drops of kirsch (optional)

Pulse the blackberries in a blender or food processor. After the berries are emulsified, whirl for a few seconds to produce a smooth purée. Pass the berry purée through a fine-mesh strainer or food mill, pressing the berries against the sides of the strainer to extract every ounce of the precious purée concentrate and to leave the seeds behind.

Heat the cream with the sugar in a medium-sized saucepan over low heat, stirring occasionally, until the sugar has dissolved. Stir the warm sweetened cream into the seedless berry purée and add a few drops of kirsch, if using. Gently mix until incorporated and chill.

Freeze according to the directions of your ice-cream maker.

VARIATION: Substitute any other similar berries such as raspberries or boysenberries.

LINDSEY REMOLIF SHERE’S CHEZ PANISSE DESSERTS

Our eighty-five-year-old organic grower friend, Mochizuki-san, sends us boxes and boxes of Japanese citrus such as otachibana, a native “grapefruit” that yields hauntingly tantalizing zest, and natsumikan, a sour yet bright lemony-flavored orange varietal, as well as small pale lemons with flowery-smelling skin. So I make a lot of citrus desserts.

And the best book for inspiration is Chez Panisse Desserts, a celebration of all things fruit and much, much more. Lindsey grew up on a fruit orchard and her recipes are simple, elegant, and compellingly delicious.

My own copy is quite bedraggled, but I can still find new desserts or pieces of advice, previously overlooked, even after almost three decades. Lindsey’s advice is firm, yet never heavy-handed and often humorous. I love it when she writes: “It is important to buy good quality spirits. You need very little and they keep forever (if you can keep from drinking them).”

I met Lindsey by chance several years ago in Italy at a Slow Food dinner. We chatted for an hour before remembering to introduce ourselves. Warm, approachable, self-possessed, with a throaty chuckle that betrayed her gentle sense of humor: This is how I saw Lindsey Shere that evening. Like so many things, friendships are built over time. Nowadays I enjoy the occasional visit with Lindsey and her erudite husband, Charles, in Healdsburg. I’m also pals with their daughter Giovanna, a fellow writer in Portland, and love that she combines both her parents’ personalities in one person. I cherish that connection forged from Japan to Italy and then back to California and now Portland. For Portland is where my eldest son, Christopher, is in school. And I love the layers of knowing (and enjoying) the person who wrote the recipes I have been using so faithfully for all these years.

So when it came time to put trustworthy delicious fruit ice cream and sorbet recipes in this book, I turned to Lindsey Remolif Shere, the founding dessert chef at Chez Panisse and the person who put her indelible mark on four decades of deliciously simple, honest (never trendy but always relevant) desserts.

While Fig Ice Cream is not Japanese, we do grow figs here and we do eat ice cream, so it works for me. I served this ice cream, adapted from Lindsey Shere’s Chez Panisse Desserts, with Plum Sorbet and Shiso Granita. The trio was spectacularly balanced in taste and color.

fig ice cream MAKES 1 QUART (1 LITER)

ICHIJIKU AISU

1 pound (500 g) ripe figs

1½ cups (400 cc) heavy cream

8 tablespoons (115 g) organic granulated sugar

3 large egg yolks, at room temperature

A few drops of Cognac (optional)

Remove the stems and cut the figs into quarters. Cook the figs with 3 tablespoons water, stirring frequently, over low heat in a heavy-bottomed nonaluminum saucepan until very soft, about 20 minutes. Pulse the cooked figs in a food processor to chop coarsely or smash with a potato masher. Measure out 1½ cups (400 cc) of purée and reserve.

Measure 1 cup (250 cc) of the cream with the sugar into a medium-sized nonaluminum saucepan and heat over low heat, stirring occasionally, until the sugar has dissolved.

Whisk about half of the warm cream mixture into the yolks, then scrape back into the heavy-bottomed saucepan with the remaining warm cream.

Heat, stirring, over low heat, until slightly thickened (see here). Strain and stir the remaining ½ cup (125 cc) cream, reserved fig purée, and Cognac, if using, into the custard. Cool to room temperature, then refrigerate overnight.

Freeze according to the directions of your ice-cream maker.

VARIATION: Substitute ripe persimmon purée for the fig purée.

I made sorbet for the first time when developing recipes for the book. Why? I suppose until then I was too busy making ice cream. But this plum sorbet (adapted from Lindsey Shere’s Chez Panisse Desserts) made me regret all those years of plum seasons that passed us by. A jewel-bright ruby red, this tart sorbet is a great foil for the subtly creamy Fig Ice Cream.

plum sorbet MAKES ABOUT 1 QUART (1 LITER)

PURAMU SHABETTO

1 ⅓ pounds (600 g) ripe plums

¾ cup plus 2 tablespoons (175 g) organic granulated sugar

A splash of kirsch

Cut the plums in half and remove the pits. Put 5 pits on a chopping board and rap each one smartly with a rubber hammer or meat tenderizer. Be sure to pull up right on impact so you don’t smash the inside kernel to smithereens (this operation takes a little skill, but the almondy kernels add a lovely hint of noisette to the plum).

Cut the plums into ½-inch (12-mm) slices with a razor-sharp knife (otherwise you’ll just be smashing the skin as you saw through). Place the fruit in a heavy, medium-sized nonaluminum saucepan, and add ¼ cup (60 cc) water and the inner kernels. Cook over low to medium heat until soft, about 15 minutes. Stir often from the bottom to discourage the plums from sticking.

Remove from the heat and purée in a food processor or blender. Measure out 2⅓ cups (320 cc) plum purée into a plastic container. Boil the sugar with ½ cup plus 2 tablespoons (150 cc) water in a small saucepan. Stir the sugar syrup and kirsch into the purée and chill the mixture in the refrigerator overnight. Freeze according to the directions of your ice-cream maker.

On one of my trips to Portland to see Christopher, in college there, I stopped by Powell’s to check out the Japanese cookbook section. I discovered an attractive book written by Victoria Wise. This recipe is adapted from a recipe for Green Tea and Shiso Granita in that book, The Vegetarian Table: Japan.

shiso granita MAKES ABOUT 3 CUPS (750 CC)

SHISO GURANITA

15 green (or red) shiso leaves

¼ cup (150 g) organic granulated sugar

Place the shiso leaves in a medium-sized bowl or 4-cup Pyrex measuring cup. Heat the sugar and 3 cups (750 cc) water to boiling in a medium saucepan, stirring the sugar to dissolve. Pour the boiling sugar water over the leaves and steep until cool.

Set a strainer over a plastic container large enough to hold 3 cups and strain out the leaves. Cover and transfer the shiso-flavored sugar water to a freezer shelf. Let sit, undisturbed, in the freezer for 1 hour. Remove to the countertop, open the lid, and gently stir in the crystals that have formed on the perimeter. Repeat this operation every 30 minutes, breaking up any larger crystals as you go. The finished granita should be flaky.

Serve alone in a beautiful glass bowl or goblet. This is also wonderful alongside Fig Ice Cream and Plum Sorbet. Keeps frozen for several weeks.

SORBET

Guests at our house have usually included a lot of kids, so, with the exception of Matthew (who is not terribly fond of cream), ice cream was always one of their most favored desserts. I didn’t make many sorbets until recently, but now that the boys are older (and our friends are too), I’m looking for a more fruit forward light taste at the end of company dinners. Sorbet fits that bill admirably and, paired with ice cream, satisfies the sweet cravings of anyone, even kids.

Sorbets are made from fruit and sugar. Done. How easy is that? A blender or food processor makes short work of the puréeing process, and a strainer or food mill is essential for removing unwanted seeds. (Cheesecloth could pinch-hit here, though it’s a bit messy.)

Sorbet is easiest served straight out of the ice-cream maker, slightly slushy and brightly flavored from the just-churned fruit purée. Once frozen, serving becomes a challenge, depending on the fruit and sugar content (cooked fruits with extra sugar, such as plums, seem to require less effort). Remove the sorbet from the freezer and let it soften a little at room temperature before attempting to construct your plates.

In the midst of my ice cream- and sorbet-making frenzy, two small pale green melons sitting in a basket in my kitchen caught my eye. They had been grown by our friend Toshiharu Suka, so I knew they would be full of flavor and juxtopose nicely with subtly nuanced white peaches. I was not disappointed. Upon cutting them open, I found they were at their absolute perfect peak of ripeness, with peachy centers and pistachio green flesh.

melon sorbet MAKES ABOUT 1 QUART (1 LITER)

MERON SHABETTO

3 pounds (1350 g) nicely flavored ripe melons (such as Charantais, Crenshaw, or cantaloupe)

1 cup (200 g) organic granulated sugar

A few drops of kirsch

Cut the melons in half and scoop out the center pulp and seeds with a soupspoon. Discard or save the seeds to dry and plant later. Scoop the melon flesh into a medium-sized bowl, but don’t scrape too close to the bitter rind.

Purée in a food processor or blender. You should have about 4 cups (1000 cc). Heat 1 cup (250 cc) of melon purée with the sugar in a heavy-bottomed, nonreactive saucepan, stirring over low heat until the sugar is dissolved.

Pour the warm sweetened melon into the rest of the purée and flavor with the kirsch.

Freeze according to the directions of your ice-cream maker.

As I was in the thick of writing the dessert chapter, my editor friend Kim sent me a link to a mango farm on the Ogasawara Islands (Japan). The ordering window is short: from August 1 to August 8. It was July 31, so I phoned the next day. Too late—they had had a bad crop and were already sold out. Miura-san found me another grower, this time in Okinawa. I called her and chatted for a while, reminiscent of the early days talking with Mochizuki-san. It took a few more weeks for her mangos to be ripe, but they were worth the wait. Mangoes are dear wherever you are, so this sorbet should be reserved for special occasions (or special guests). I used Rhum du Père Labat, an artisanal white rum crafted from rainwater by an old guy at a small distillery on L’île de Marie-Galante, an island in the Caribbean. Apparently the guy follows instinct more than a formula, and Tadaaki imagines him dipping his cigarette smoke–stained finger into the vat of rum to taste (and further enhance) his liquor—a bit of fantasy that adds to the wild overtones of this unique rum.

mango sorbet MAKES ABOUT 1 QUART (1 LITER)

MANGO SHABETTO

3 pounds (1500 g) perfectly ripe mangoes

2 teaspoons artisanal white rum (preferably with a “wild” taste)

Juice of 2 limes

¾ cup (150 g) organic granulated sugar

Slice the mango flesh off the pits over a medium-sized bowl to catch all the essential juices. Working one by one (to avoid losing any drops of juice as it runs off onto the counter from the cutting board), lay a piece of mango, peel side down, onto a cutting board. Scrape off the flesh as close to the peel as you can with the back of a knife. Also remove as much pulp as you can from the pits and drop into the mango bowl. After each piece is peeled, be sure to scrape the accumulated mango juices into the bowl along with the fruit.

Purée the mango pieces with their juices in a food processor or blender. There should be about 3½ cups (850 cc). Add the rum and lime juice.

Heat the sugar with ½ cup (125 cc) water in a small saucepan, stirring over medium-high heat to dissolve. Simmer for 5 minutes. Pour into a small bowl or measuring cup to cool.

When the syrup has cooled to almost room temperature, mix in the seasoned mango purée and chill.

Freeze according to the directions of your ice-cream maker.

In the early years of our marriage, Tadaaki’s father would be out in the early summer, wrapping each piece of fruit on his white peach tree with newspaper to keep the birds away. Those were my formative years in Japan. I fought against much and often did not appreciate the subtle flavors around me. Why couldn’t we have a yellow peach tree, I wondered? Why does he wrap the peaches in newspaper instead of the “special fruit paper” used by the local apple pear growers? I found the peaches fairly tasteless and blamed it on the newspaper for not letting the sun’s rays hit the fruit directly during the ripening process. This may or may not have been the case, but more likely I overlooked the essential point of a white peach. For white peaches are juicy, delicate, and refreshing when served chilled in the sultry summer. But in the intervening years, the white peach tree fell prey to disease and was cut down. I never mourned it until now.

It was midsummer when I was writing this book. Fruit was all over the place—on our trees and at the farm stands. We were also the recipients of various kinds of fruit, including a box of unblemished white peaches, so white peach ice cream just made sense. Refreshing, light on the cream, elegant.

white peach ice cream MAKES ABOUT 1 QUART (1 LITER)

HAKUTO AISU

¾ cup (180 cc) heavy cream

¾ cup (180 cc) milk

¾ cup (150 g) organic granulated sugar

3 egg yolks, at room temperature

1 pound (500 g) ripe white peaches

A few drops of kirsch (optional)

Pour the cream and milk into a small nonreactive saucepan with ½ cup (100 g) of the sugar and heat over low heat, stirring occasionally, until the sugar has dissolved.

Warm the egg yolks with a couple of ladles of the warm cream mixture and pour back into the saucepan with the remaining warm cream and milk.

Heat, stirring, over low heat until the custard has slightly thickened (see here). Strain, cool to room temperature, then chill overnight.

Prepare the peach purée the next day about an hour before freezing the ice cream. Cut the peaches in half and peel over a medium-sized bowl to catch all the precious juices (white peaches have a very delicate flavor, so you do not want to lose any speck of them running onto the counter or cutting board). Once peeled, slice into ½-inch (1-cm) segments with a sharp knife, dropping the pieces into the drip-catching bowl. Mix with the remaining ¼ cup (50 g) sugar and let macerate for 30 minutes.

Smash the peach pulp with a potato masher until the pulp retains some small chunky bits (but no large lumps). You should have about 1½ cups (375 cc) of purée.

Fold the peach purée into the chilled ice cream custard and splash in a few drops of kirsch, if using. Freeze according to the directions of your ice-cream maker.

Once I had embraced white peaches as an ice cream, I was all in, so thought white peach sorbet would make a light palate cleanser, particularly good after fried foods such as tempura. I try to avoid using out-of-season lemons in the summer but it couldn’t be helped. I sampled the “batter” before adding lemon and found it a tad flat. A few drops of lemon added that bright note to bring all the flavors up to the front, so don’t leave it out.

white peach sorbet MAKES ABOUT 1 QUART (1 LITER)

HAKUTO SHABETTO

1 ¾ pounds (800 g) ripe white peaches

¾ cup (150 g) organic granulated sugar

A squeeze of lemon juice

A few drops of kirsch

Cut the peaches in half and peel over a medium-sized saucepan to catch the juices. Once peeled, slice with a sharp knife, dropping the pieces into the drip-catching saucepan as you go.

Add 2 tablespoons water and cook over low heat, stirring, for about 10 minutes, or until the peach pieces are hot to their centers. Remove from the heat.

Purée in a food processor or blender but do not wash the warm saucepan. You should have about 3 cups (750 cc). Return the peach purée to the saucepan and stir in the sugar. Continue stirring off heat until the sugar is dissolved. Squeeze in a few drops of lemon juice and kirsch. Chill.

Freeze according to the directions of your ice-cream maker.

Years ago, Tadaaki got a line on some small, intensely flavored pineapples grown organically in Okinawa. We waited (im)patiently for them each year. But since they were only available during a one-week period in August, sometimes we missed it. The tricky thing is that the harvest time follows nature, so each year it is slightly different. But then one year we heard devastating news. The pineapple grower had drowned the winter before, and his wife had not been able to continue on in his place. We ordered pineapples from another organic grower, but they just were not the same—until this year. Growing things takes more than planting seeds or tending trees. It takes a person who really cares. And it takes a person who understands intuitively what the vegetables or fruits need to thrive. We still did order periodically, but did not feel as compelled to as before. Nonetheless, I did not give up hope for that perfect pineapple to come my way again. And it did. The pineapple ice cream (and sorbet) I made from the pineapple was the best of the summer—and maybe the best ice cream and sorbet I have ever tasted.

pineapple ice cream MAKES ABOUT 1 QUART (1 LITER)

PAINAPPURU AISU

1 small ripe organic pineapple (about 1 pound/500 g)

¾ cup (180 cc) heavy cream

6 tablespoons (90 cc) milk

¾ cup (150 g) organic granulated sugar

3 egg yolks, at room temperature

A few drops of vanilla extract

Lop the top off the pineapple and remove the peel with a sharp knife. Cut out the eyes with the tip of the knife. Stand the pineapple upright on a cutting board and quarter vertically. Lay each quarter wedge down on the board and slice off the hard center core section. Cut the pineapple into large chunks and slide into a medium-sized nonreactive saucepan. Heat almost to boiling. Remove from the heat and pulse in a food processor or blender until chunky but not puréed. There should be about 1¼ cups (550 cc) or so of purée.

Pour the cream and milk into a small nonreactive saucepan with the sugar and heat over low heat, stirring occasionally, until the sugar has dissolved.

Warm the yolks with a couple of ladles of warm cream mixture and pour back into the saucepan with the remaining warm cream and milk.

Heat over low heat until slightly thickened (see here). Strain into the pineapple purée. Add a few drops of vanilla, stir gently to mix, and chill overnight.

Freeze according to the directions of your ice-cream maker.

On its own or paired with Pineapple Ice Cream, this sorbet will surprise you. (Reserve the core, peel, and top to make homemade pineapple vinegar. Steep with a handful of organic sugar and a few gallons of water for three months in a clear glass jar covered with cheesecloth under the hot summer sun.)

pineapple sorbet MAKES ABOUT 1 QUART (1 LITER)

PAINAPPURU SHABETTO

2 small ripe organic pineapples (about 2½ pounds/1 kg or so)

½ cup (100 g) organic granulated sugar

Kirsch (optional)

Cut the tops off the pineapples and slice off the peel with a sharp knife. Pare out the eyes with the tip of the knife. Stand the pineapples upright on a cutting board and quarter vertically. Lay each quarter wedge down on the board and slice off the hard center core. Cut the pineapples into large chunks and purée in a food processor or blender. There should be about 3 cups (750 cc); if not, adjust the sugar (1 cup/250 cc pineapple purée : 3 tablespoons/45 g sugar).

Heat the sugar with ¾ cup of the pineapple purée in a heavy-bottomed nonreactive saucepan, stirring over low heat to dissolve. Fold into the unheated pineapple purée and stir in a couple of drops of kirsch, if using.

Freeze according to the directions of your ice-cream maker.

I came across a recipe for peanut brittle in David Lebovitz’s The Perfect Scoop, and especially loved that he had gotten it originally from Mary Jo Thoresen. I had intended to use that method for my sesame brittle, but not in love with corn syrup (or using thermometers), I opted for adapting David’s “croquant” method on the adjacent page. I met David at Food Blog Camp and am hooked on his quirky blog posts. He also puts out some damn good dessert cookbooks (and a laugh-out-loud memoir with recipes). Mary Jo and her husband, Curt, cooked with the Chez Panisse crew at the second Soba Dinner we staged there in 2010. I find comfort in the interconnectedness of the world of food, especially since I live on a farm in rural Japan. Through food, I am part of a larger, supportive community.

sesame brittle SERVES 12

GOMA BURITORU

1 cup (150 g) unhulled sesame seeds

1 cup (200 g) organic granulated sugar

Line a baking sheet with a piece of heavy-duty aluminum foil.

Toast the sesame seeds over medium-high heat in a slope-sided wide frying pan until fragrant and just starting to pop. Sesame seeds burn easily, so you must be attentive. Shake the pan, lifting it off the heat once in a while. Spread out the sesame seeds (up the sides of the pan) to even the heat distribution. When the seeds start to pop, immediately remove from the heat and pour them into a small bowl to cool.

Measure the sugar into a light-colored medium-sized, medium-weight saucepan. If you use organic sugar, the caramelization process is somewhat difficult to gauge and the sugar can easily burn. A light-colored pan is useful; also a medium-weight pan (as opposed to heavyweight) will slow the heating process a bit, so it works in your favor.

Heat over medium heat and roll the pan a bit as the sugar starts to bubble and brown on the edges. A heatproof spatula is helpful to gently nudge the sugar “islands” into the melting caramel if you are careful and don’t overwork.

As soon as all the sugar granules are completely melted, dump in the sesame seeds, mix quickly but thoroughly, and scrape onto the foil-lined baking sheet. Smooth the hot sugar and seed mixture as thinly as you can—it cools immediately on contact with the foil, so move smart!

Cool completely, peel away from the foil, break into pieces, and serve as a garnish to complementary desserts such as ice cream. Use part of the foil to line a plastic container or tin box. Store pieces of sesame brittle, set side by side (not stacked or overlapping), using the rest of the foil (torn into pieces) to separate the layers. Keeps for several week at room temperature, depending on the humidity.

VARIATION: Replace the sesame seeds with 1½ cups (150 g) roasted chopped peanuts, pecans, or walnuts.

In the sixteenth century, Portuguese merchants and missionaries became the first Westerners to enter what was then feudal Japan. The Portuguese eventually were given the boot by Shogun Iemitsu Tokugawa in the middle 1600s, when Japan closed her gates to the world. The shogunate did not take kindly to Christian proselytizing; however, the Portuguese did manage to introduce a number of foods that were adapted and assimilated into what is now traditional Japanese cuisine. Tempura and castella are just a couple of those foods. Castella is similar to pound cake but has a syrup component and is more dense in texture. Also castella is not often made at home.

Kanchan serves pound cake at the end of most meals at his restaurants, so for me it works as a Japanese dessert. In my early years in Japan, I had a little pound cake business going. I learned to hate those temperamental, though tasty cakes. My younger sister Lisa is the cake queen in our family and she swears by (and gave me) Rose Levy Beranbaum’s The Cake Bible. When I make cakes, I use that book because I trust my cake-savvy sister (and Rose Levy Beranbaum). But this recipe (adapted from Lindsey Shere’s Rose Geranium Pound Cake method) won’t disappoint you.

pound cake MAKES 4 SMALL LOAVES OR 1 LARGE BUNDT CAKE

PAUNDO KEIKI

2½ sticks (170 g) unsalted butter, at room temperature, plus more for the pan(s)

2⅔ cups (400 g) unsifted cake flour, plus more for the pan(s)

1⅓ cups (265 g) organic granulated sugar

¾ teaspoon fine sea salt

6 eggs, at room temperature

1½ teaspoons vanilla extract

Preheat the oven to 325˚F (165˚C). Butter and flour four mini loaf pans or a 10-inch (25-cm) tube or Bundt pan.

Measure the flour into a medium-sized bowl and whisk to break up any lumps. Cream the butter, sugar, and salt together in a medium-large bowl with a hand mixer until well emulsified and fluffy.

Break the eggs into a medium-sized bowl and add the vanilla. Slurp the eggs in, 2 at a time, to the batter. Beat until the eggs are nicely incorporated and there are no ripple breaks on the surface of the batter. Scrape down the sides between egg additions.

Add the flour in 4 increments. Scrape in a quarter of the flour, beat at low speed until creamy, scrape down the sides, and continue until all the flour has been added and the batter is thick and velvety.

Divide the batter among the small loaf pans or smooth into the tube pan and rap smartly on the counter to eliminate any air pockets. Bake the small loaves for 45 to 50 minutes or the tube pan (or Bundt) pan for 75 minutes. The cakes should be golden brown. Cool for 3 minutes in the pans. Invert the cakes onto a clean dish towel, then set on a cake rack to finish cooling. Cut and serve when completely cool.

Tadaaki began making custard when he had an excess of eggs (or milk, since I tend to order too much, a vestige of my ingredient-less childhood). He whips it up for the egg workers’ ten o’clock tea break. Originally he used small fluted metal pudding cups because that was the Japanese way. And not wanting to “bother me” by asking where the vanilla was, he bought the only vanilla flavoring available locally—vanilla essence, not real extract. I stepped back and let him have at it. I had only ever made custard in the oven, so didn’t really want to get involved in his stovetop method. But over the years, Tadaaki, Mr. Wing It, ended up perfecting “the recipe” and realized the benefit of sometimes following a formula. He flavors with vanilla or occasionally instant espresso powder. I thought ginger would complement the delicate flavor of this milk-based custard. And it does.

ginger custard MAKES 8

SHOGA PURIN

2 cups (500 cc) milk

¼ cup plus 2 scant tablespoons (75 g) organic granulated sugar

5 large farm-fresh eggs, at room temperature

1 teaspoon ginger juice, squeezed from finely grated fresh ginger

Pour the milk into a heavy-bottomed saucepan, stir in the sugar, and dissolve over medium-high heat. Stir occasionally. Do not let it boil!

Just before the milk reaches a boil, remove from the heat and let cool for 1 minute.

Whisk the eggs lightly until the whites and yolks are incorporated but not frothy. Pour the hot milk into the whisked eggs in a slow, steady stream, whisking continuously. At this point, the custard will naturally be at the perfect ambient temperature, about 160–175˚F (70–80˚C).

Preheat eight ceramic ramekins (½ cup/125 cc) in a bamboo or metal steamer set over a large pan of simmering water. Strain the milk mixture, add the ginger juice, and fill the warm ramekins about three-quarters full. Steam for 15 minutes over low to medium-low heat. The trick here is to steam the custards slowly—even taking up to 22 minutes. For the most silky results, stay on the low end of the temperature setting, and then after 15 minutes, increase the heat just a speck and check every 2 minutes. Toward the end you can gauge the doneness by giving the steamer a little jiggle and seeing how the custard reacts. It should have turned from soupy to a gentle soft consistency.

Remove the steamer from the heat. Serve warm or let cool to room temperature before serving. Also good chilled. (After cooling, cover with foil and refrigerate.)

POUNDING MOCHI

“Gacha-gacha-gacha,” our monstrously heavy and equally ancient front door rattles on its metal track, quickly followed by the whoosh of the wood and glass shoji inner front door. From the energy burst of the opening and the splash of hand washing, I know it’s Tadaaki, coming in for breakfast after collecting the early morning eggs. As he bangs brass against iron, I hear him hefting the antique stockpot onto our stove. He sparks the flame and the soft hum of the hood fan revs up. Christmas has come and gone, and now shogatsu (Japanese New Year) has arrived. Shogatsu is traditionally a family time, though that has been waning in recent years as family members disperse to far cities. But our family still follows most of the traditional practices.

On December 29, Tadaaki washes the organic glutinous rice (mochi gome) that we will pound the next day. This year Tadaaki plans to pound eight batches of mochi, so he has eight pails of rice to wash and soak. Each pail holds three kilos of rice that he has bought from our grower friend, Suka-san. A couple of years ago, Tadaaki discovered an antique rice washer upstairs in my collection of flea market finds and was excited to put it to use. The guy I bought it from said it was an ice-cream maker. I doubted that but was attracted by the fine craftsmanship of the old wooden bucket and the low price. Tadaaki soaks the rice overnight, and the next morning we kick off shogatsu with a half-day of mochi making (mochi tsuki).

Every year we do mochi tsuki outside in the garden, and by some stroke of luck, that day almost always dawns sunny. Tadaaki wraps a pail of soaked mochi gome in a muslin cloth, puts the muslin bundle into a lidded wooden steamer, and places it on top of an iron pot full of boiling water set over a wood-burning fire. The glutinous rice steams for about an hour, then is plucked out of the steamer and dumped into a one-meter-diameter mortar (usu), a hollowed-out tree stump that Tadaaki has soaked overnight. Tadaaki’s mother prepares a bucket of cold water next to the usu for dipping in the mallet or hands before touching the hot sticky rice. First Tadaaki circles the usu, smashing the rice grains with an oversized wooden mallet. Then he wields the mallet high above his head and pounds the mass with a series of distinctively satisfying thumps. The inexperienced tend toward squelchy, weak glurps when their mallet hits the rice. (They probably don’t reach far enough over their heads to really get the necessary leverage.) One person pounds and another person dips a hand in the cold water, then folds the rice “dough” over itself in one quick movement while the mallet is still in the air (almost like kneading bread). We invite a few dozen friends and everyone gets a turn at pounding the mochi. In the past, Tadaaki and his brothers worked up a sweat. But now that the kids are getting bigger and friends have gotten more skillful, the mallet gets passed around, and mochi tsuki is truly a community event.

As soon as each batch of mochi is pounded, we must work quickly before it cools to an unpliable mass. We smooth the hot mochi into moon-shaped dumplings called kagami mochi, which will be stacked in two tiers and offered to the house gods. Tadaaki continues to pinch off misshapen globs of mochi as we flatten them into rough circles and stretch them around a ball of anko (simmered organic azuki beans smashed with organic sugar and a little sea salt). As more batches of mochi are pounded, I take my turn at rolling the mochi into a rectangular slab. Mochi is much less temperamental than piecrust and just needs a firm, even hand. Tadaaki’s mother used to roll the mochi out on the hall floor, which opens up to the garden, but in recent years Tadaaki drags out Christopher’s Ping-Pong table for the operation. Once the mochi is rolled and well powdered with potato starch, Tadaaki flips the several-centimeter-thick slabs onto a wooden board to dry for a couple of days before cutting. The air-drying process is essential to create a wicked surface against which the mochi will push off and puff up when broiled.

Some of my oldest friends have come and we fall easily back on familiar topics. I uncork the stopper of Harigaya-san’s homemade lager and pour a glass. Life couldn’t get any better, and this day is one of my favorite days of the year: (almost) no responsibility, the warm winter sun, and talking leisurely with friends. Sometimes it’s nice not to be in charge.

But the real truth is that Tadaaki and I share an intertwined responsibility, and this is why we are able to preserve age-old farm customs or create our own. Our partnership, along with our family and community (those people in our life who share those same ideals), and the fact that that community is a world community, gives us an immeasurable amount of collective energy to keep on growing and creating. And, when I think about it, that is a powerful feeling that brings me to my knees.

My mother-in-law has a severely bent back caused by the postwar calcium-poor diet and years of working in the rice fields. But at eighty-three, she still makes ohagi on every traditional farming holiday. These sweets go very well with tea and make a tasty and healthy afternoon snack.

The first time I made ohagi with my preschool students, they had a grand old time and begged to make them again the following week. Sadly, sweet bean paste (anko) is not wildly popular with Japanese children today, and chocolate has replaced this traditional azuki bean paste as the flavor of choice. Perhaps it is because so few people make it by hand and because it is often overly sweet. There is a myth that making anko is difficult. Not true. Use organic azuki beans and organic sugar, and what can go wrong?

pounded sticky rice sweets MAKES ABOUT 24

OHAGI

2 cups (500 cc) glutinous rice (mochi gome)

2 cups (500 cc) minus 3 tablespoons filtered or spring water

TOPPINGS

4 tablespoons sesame seeds

1 tablespoon organic sugar

¼ teaspoon fine sea salt

4 tablespoons soybean powder (kinako)

1 tablespoon organic sugar

¼ teaspoon fine sea salt

1 cup (250 cc) azuki beans

¼ cup (50 g) organic sugar

¼ teaspoon fine sea salt

Wash the glutinous rice until the water runs clear. Place the rice in a rice cooker. Add the filtered water and let stand overnight. Cook in the rice cooker on the okawa (おかわ) setting or in a heavy saucepan according to the cooking method for Plain Rice.

Transfer the cooked glutinous rice to a large mixing bowl and mash with a large wooden pestle (surikogi) until the rice grains adhere into a sticky mass. There should still be visible grains. Let cool 20 minutes for easier handling.

Set a small bowl of cold water by your side. Dip your fingers in the water to keep the rice from sticking to your hands. Shape the rice into 4 by 2-inch (10 by 5-cm) oblongs. Finish by using one of the three toppings.

Sesame: Toast the sesame seeds in a dry pan over medium heat just until they start to pop. Grind roughly in a suribachi or mortar, add the sugar and salt, and mix. Pour the sesame mixture onto a small plate and roll the rice oblongs in it to coat.

Soybean powder (kinako): Mix the soybean powder, sugar, and salt. Follow the above procedure for rolling the rice pieces.

Azuki bean paste (anko): Measure the azuki beans into a medium-sized, heavy pot and fill the pot three-quarters full with cold water. Bring to a boil over high heat, remove from the heat and let sit 1 hour. Drain, return the beans to the pot, and fill with cold water to about 2 inches (4 cm) above the beans. Bring to a simmer and cook for about 15 minutes, then throw in a ½ cup (125 cc) of cold water. This is known as “surprise water” (bikkuri mizu): it shocks the beans and softens them. Bring back to a simmer and cook until the beans just get soft (about 10 or 15 minutes). Stir in the sugar and salt and continue cooking uncovered, stirring occasionally, until the beans start to fall apart and most of the water has evaporated. If there is still too much liquid left in the pan, boil over high heat to reduce (but take care not to burn the bottom). Mash roughly. The paste should be about the consistency of mashed potatoes but still chunky (technically this style of anko is called tsubu-an). Smooth the anko around the rice oblongs. This recipe makes 3 cups (750 cc), but leftover anko keeps well for several months or more in the freezer.

My youngest son Matthew was hot to become a wagashiya (traditional Japanese sweet maker) several years ago, and he set about making all sorts of Japanese sweets. But a few years ago, after being homeschooled all their life, Matthew and brother Andrew entered Japanese junior high. No more dreams of being a wagashiya, no more going up to the pottery studio to throw plates or bowls—it was basketball and school all the way (though Matthew did pick up the guitar a year or so ago and Skypes with brother Christopher about music and chords). Matthew and Andrew ducked out whenever Miura-san was photographing for the book, so other than a couple photos, are absent from these pages. The boys have some contrived idea that taking their picture takes a part of their souls. Okaaay . . . I wonder where they picked that up?

Kuzu mochi may not be traditional to Tadaaki’s farm family, but I include it because, unlike some of the other sweets, it is uncomplicated and quick to make. Kuzu mochi also combines a couple of my favorite elements in Japanese sweets: kinako and kuromitsu (soybean flour and black sugar syrup). Originally from warabi (bracken) roots, nowadays this is made from kuzu starch. At the height of Matthew’s wagashiya days, he made these often, so this recipe is for Matthew.

kuzu sweets with black sugar syrup MAKES 16 PIECES

KUZU MOCHI

⅔ cup (3.5 oz/100 g) kuzu starch (hon kuzu)

¼ cup (50 g) organic sugar

FOR SPRINKLING

6 tablespoons soybean powder (kinako)

1½ tablespoons organic sugar

¼ teaspoon fine sea salt

Black Sugar Syrup or blackstrap molasses (optional)

Sprinkle 1 tablespoon of the sweetened kinako powder on each bottom surface of two 8 by 4-inch (20 by 10-cm) metal loaf pans.

Fill a wide pan about halfway with water, set a steamer basket over the water, and bring to a simmer over high heat.

Measure the kuzu and sugar into a medium-sized pan and whisk in 1 cup (250 cc) water until no kuzu lumps remain. Add 1½ cups (375 cc) more water, whisk briskly, and cook over medium heat, stirring constantly with a flat wooden spoon. After a while, you will be able to see a few rice-shaped clear gobules here and there. At this point, turn the heat down to low and continue cooking (and stirring) until the liquid thickens into a smooth, milky-white paste, then finally changes to become almost clear. Remove the saucepan from the heat and smooth the hot paste into the two prepared loaf pans. Most likely both pans will not fit in the steamer, so steam one by one over medium heat for 20 minutes (before steaming the second pan of kuzu mochi, be sure to add more hot water to the pan under the steamer since it will have evaporated).

When the kuzu mochi is cool, cut each pan into 8 pieces. To serve: sprinkle a little sweetened kinako on a small plate, lay a piece or two of kuzu mochi on top, sprinkle with some more kinako, and drizzle to taste with some black sugar syrup or molasses, if using.

Kuzu mochi only keeps for a day or two, so serve and eat quickly. Do not refrigerate because the sweets will harden and fade in both color and flavor.

I never really loved the texture of steamed buns, and by the time I came on the scene, my mother-in-law was using store-bought flour and locally made azuki bean paste (anko). Like many farmer women of her generation, decades of postwar privation while raising kids and helping on the farm paved the way for embracing ready-made or store-bought when more prosperous times came. Tadaaki’s father had also stopped growing wheat for flour, so there was that as well. After college, Tadaaki returned home to work on the farm and not only revived old growing customs but also added new. He began to grow wheat again for the udon noodles they ate every night for dinner, and after we were married he experimented with growing hard red wheat for bread flour. There was a bit of trial and error involved in finding the right variety and drying method (the heating hopper overheated the grain, often rendering it gummy). In the meantime, Baachan lost the energy to make manju. Tadaaki occasionally would pair up with Matthew for a manju-making session, but by this time I had given up on sampling them (especially since I don’t take tea breaks). Baachan often asks me, “Ocha arate kun nai?” (“Won’t you drink some tea?”) when I’m dashing out the door. She always asks with a giggle, because she knows I can’t stop. (And don’t.)

Flour from homegrown wheat and anko made at home are sublime. Such homemade manju are nothing like the factory-made manju that abound in Japan, a favorite omiyage (presents from trips to other areas of Japan). But that’s another story.

steamed buns stuffed with azuki paste MAKES 12

SAKAMANJU

1 cup (250 g) anko

1 ⅓ cup (200 g) or more good-tasting unbleached cake or pastry flour

2 tablespoons organic sugar

2 teaspoons baking powder

¾ cup (8.8-oz/250-g package) organic amazake

Make the anko earlier in the day or the day before because it needs to cool before handling.

Measure the flour, sugar, and baking powder into a medium-sized mixing bowl and whisk to break up any lumps. Stir the amazake in slowly with a wooden spoon. Turn the dough out onto a clean, flat surface dusted with flour. Rub off any lingering wet dough scraps left on the sides of the bowl with some flour and drop them on top of the dough. Knead the whole mass gently, adding flour as necessary, until the dough has developed the soft consistency of your earlobe. Return the dough to the bowl, cover with a damp cloth, and let rest for an hour.

While the dough is resting, make 12 anko balls, drape with plastic wrap, and set aside on a medium-sized plate.

Cut parchment paper into twelve (3-inch/7.5-cm) square pieces and place in a bamboo steamer.

After an hour, the dough should have risen a bit but will not be as active as a typical bread dough leavened with yeast. Dust very lightly with flour (this is a slightly sticky dough) and knead a couple of turns. Separate the dough into 4 equal sized balls, roll those into short, fat sausage-like shapes, and pinch each of those into 3 balls for a total of 12.

Working with 4 balls at a time, reroll each dough ball so it is evenly rounded. Flatten the dough on the palm of your hand a bit, then roll/stretch into a ⅓-inch (8-mm) thick, 2½-inch (6-cm) wide circle. Pinch around the perimeter of the circle to thin the edge and to increase the size of the circle to about 3½ inches (9 cm). Place 1 anko ball in the middle of the circle and pinch up the outside edges of circle to form a dome-shaped bun. Arrange, seam side down, on top of the parchment paper pieces in the bamboo steamer. Let rest 30 minutes before cooking.

Fill a wide pan halfway with water and bring to a boil over high heat. Set the steamer vessel on top of but not in the boiling water and steam for 20 minutes. Remove from the heat and serve at room temperature. Do not open the steamer while cooking or cooling, except for one peek after 20 minutes to make sure they are done! The buns are best the same day but will keep wrapped in plastic then stored in a resealable plastic bag for a day or two. Do not refrigerate.

Not all tea snacks need to be sweet, and since farm work can be quite physical, salty flavors are also welcome. These dango were traditionally made unsweetened, brushed with soy sauce and slow grilled over a charcoal fire. If you have never smelled that indescribable aroma of gently caramelizing soy sauce intermingled with the tantalizing smoke from artisanal Japanese charcoal, well . . . you haven’t lived. For me that is the smell of Japan.

You will need six (6-inch/15-cm) bamboo skewers to make this recipe.

soy sauce–broiled dango balls MAKES 6 STICKS OF 4 DANGO

DANGO

1 cup (175 g) rice flour for dango (joshinko)

3 tablespoons organic soy sauce

Sweet Soy-Flavored Sauce (optional)

Bring a large, wide pot of water to a boil.

Set a large bowl in the kitchen sink and fill with cold water. Drop the bamboo skewers into the bowl.

Measure the joshinko into a medium-sized bowl. Whisk to break up any lumps and slowly add ¾ cup (175 cc) hot water to form a firm but pliable dough. Grasp the side of the bowl with one hand and knead the dough briefly with your other hand.

Divide the dough into 24 equal-sized balls and drop into the boiling water. After about 8 or 10 minutes, the balls will rise to the surface. Cook for another 4 minutes and remove from the boiling water by scooping up with a wire mesh strainer and dumping into the bowl of cold water in your sink. Run more cold water into the bowl to keep the overall temperature cool, but be careful the dango don’t flow out of the bowl and escape into the sink.

Prepare a small charcoal “hibachi”-style brazier (shichirin). The charcoal takes some time to burn down and the low embers are best for cooking. Alternatively, set the broiler rack on the third position from the top and heat the broiler.

Remove the skewers from the bowl before draining the cooled dango. Let air dry for a few minutes on a non–terry cloth kitchen towel. Pat dry if you are pressed for time.

Thread 4 dango balls onto each skewer so that they are gently nestled up next to each other but not smashed together. They should be centered on the skewer. Brush with soy sauce and broil or grill about 2 minutes on each of their 4 “sides,” brushing with more soy sauce each time you turn the skewer.

Serve hot from the grill with a cup of Japanese green tea for a midmorning or afternoon snack. If you prefer a sweeter flavor, dip in the sauce before serving.