Beauty is in the eye (or ear) of the beholder

John has been DJing at a local radio station, KFJC.  It is one of the original college radio stations of the Bay Area, and is kind of famous for its experimental music.  There have been times where we are trying to tune in to 89.7 on our tuner, which has an analog dial, and we can't seem to get anything but static no matter what we do.  And then, it turns out that the static was the music.

If you listen to the tail end of the show he did yesterday (7/16's Stone Cold Lampin'), as I did from my car on my way to work, you will hear – the final track John played is a little experimental, sure, but good for listening to at 6am.  "I wonder what the next DJ will play to transition to his or her show?" I thought.  Literally, it was a sine wave.  I gave it 60 full seconds before it was too much.  I switched to NPR.  I did check in at 2 minutes, 5 minutes, 8 minutes past the hour.  Still just the single sine wave piercing my head via my ear canal.  Out of morbid curiosity, I checked back in at 22 minutes and it was still the sine wave, but coupled with some other instrument and the DJ was reading a PSA over it all.  I gave up after that.  Maybe it was the sine wave for his entire show - I'll never know and frankly don't care.  We have always been huge listeners of KFJC at our house - either it or the jazz station is on if we aren't listening to records.  I'd like to think that my tolerance for grating sounds has grown broader, but there is a limit and I will turn off anything that causes distress.  Like, forget about the 8am hour on Sunday, but at 9am is Sunday Morning Coming Down, which is a show I enjoy.

At dinner last night, we had KFJC on quietly in the background.  The DJ was playing inoffensive techno - not my favorite thing but not causing any psychological trauma either.  Plus it was turned down low. 

We were eating burgers w/coleslaw  – John made it all, even the mayo for the slaw and burger condiment.  It was magnificent.  My mom's second American meal of the day (she'd had a sandwich for lunch, something she deems to be strictly American, like burgers).  

At a lull in the conversation, my mom cocks her head and says, "What's that I'm hearing?"  We listened.  It was some low pulsating techno beat.

"Some call it music," said John. 

"Well, I don't."

I can't say I disagree.

Just like every cowboy sings his sad song

Last time we were here, John made an infusion of Jim Beam, Aperol and sansho from my mom's backyard.  It sat untouched for the past nearly two years, and when John got here one of the first things he did was to pull it out and filter it.  The Jim Beam bottle was literally covered in dust which tells you how much of a drinker my mother is.  "I didn't even know that was HERE!" my mom exclaimed. 

Sansho leaves are something I've found nearly impossible to procure in the US, even at Japanese or other specialty grocers.  When I was living here in 2007/8, I made a very delicious panna cotta using the leaves as an edible, slightly lemony, slightly peppery garnish.  

As a side story, when I'd made this dessert, my mom was astonished at the lightness of the flavor.  "Let's eat this every day!" she said.  

"Do you know how much heavy cream goes in to each serving?" I asked her.  Then I told her.  

"Well, maybe let's not eat this every day," she sighed.

But back to my story.  We are considering taking some of my mom's sansho back to the US.  "It's a very strong bush," she told us as we looked out in the yard.  "It's the one right there, with the thons."

I love it.  As cute as tish.  She's been out of the US for 15 years now and it's taking its toll on her English.  Much to my glee. 

I'm married to a man with nerves (and a gut) of steel

This is our second trip to Tokyo together.  Last time for their first lunch together, my mom fed John the benign-from-a-Japanese-perspective lunch tororo soba.  If you've never had it, look it up.  There are worse descriptions one might think of, but John was generous and described the experience like 'eating a bunch of booger-covered noodles.'  I've been eating tororo since I was a kid and its disgustingness would have never occurred to me, but I see where he is coming from (and appreciate his discretion in not going further with the description - bukkakesoba was never more aptly named, unfortunately).

On that first trip John ate so many weird things, like the obligatory natto as well as barbequed skewers of chicken hearts, skin, livers and whatnot.  I can't remember if he ate chicken fetus, but if he didn't it would have only been because the yakitori place was out and not for lack of courage.  Needless to say, on this second trip to Japan John's motto remains: Bring it on.

We arrived in Tokyo in the late afternoon, surviving a particularly turbulent final 1/2 hour and landing.  A combination of the motion sickness and the 'meals' served to us on the flight (including such combinations as undercooked rice pilaf with some weird beef sauce as a main, with a side of salad and a roll.  And two pieces of sushi) made the nausea upon landing very hard to shake.  Of course the three hour car ride from the airport paired with my mom's driving and navigation ('Oops, I just made a wrong turn') left us with churning stomachs even after we'd arrived safely home.

Luckily, dinner was gentle enough - pork and veggie nabe cooked at the table kind of like a hot pot.  It looked good, smelled good and I started to feel more human.  That was before my mom brought out Ogura-san's 'specialty.'

"You should try it!" she said as I dubiously poked at the dish of slimy pink pieces.

"What is it?" I ask doubtfully.

"Ogura-san made it.  It's my favorite!  It's squid in its own sauce."

"You mean, ink?"

"No, sauce from its..." (she gestures around her abdomen).

"Guts?" I shudder.

"Yes.  It's squid in innards sauce."

John, bless him, ate three pieces and declared them delicious.  

I graciously passed.

reality isn't a contributing factor

When I first arrived in New York, my mom could not for the life of her remember John's name. The John part was fine. It was the other part that tripped her up.

"What's his name again?" she'd ask me. "Hoppy? Poppy? Poppin?"

"Hoppin"

"It reminds me of Mary Poppins! Anyway, I was close."

"Yes, but one is his name and the others aren't."

"Well, they're all cute," she says as justification.

I can't really argue; it's even cuter in Japanese: ホッピン but I threatened to call her Yamada if the logic of close enough was going to be followed.

A post-script:
She did buy us tickets to see Mary Poppins on Broadway.  John is certain that it was because it reminds her of his name.  He is probably right.

Straight from John's pen

At a cafe in Tokyo. I ordered an ice coffee. It came with the little syrup container with the silver lid. Yoko ordered toast, big slices of briochey white bread served with butter and marmalade. There was an old man with all silver teeth smoking cigarettes and talking crazily to himself.

I asked what was up with him.

"He's old," said Yoko.

Read John's entire post HERE.