Occam of the future

Last night I was scraping off the label from a new metal spatchula when my mom says to me, "Where did you find the one sided laser?"

I looked at the razor in my hand and started laughing.

First date-night

Last night, John and I left the frijolito with my mom for a quick date and caught the second half of a jazz show at Cafe Stritch.  It was the first time to leave him in the care of someone and I definitely felt some pangs of separation anxiety as we drove away from the house, but he was fast asleep when we left plus we planned to be back before any needs arose, plus my mom is great with him, plus there are cell phones... and I know it's important to enjoy some time just John and me.

The show was fantastic and we got home with plenty of time before the baby's next feeding.  And though I knew nothing had gone wrong because we had not received any frantic calls from my mom, I was very anxious to know how the first babysitting had gone.

We opened the door, my mom popped around the corner and I asked how it'd gone.  

My mom looked really excited to let us know:

"NOT A BEEP!!"

Sports analysis by Yoko

Today, our last day in Tokyo, was spent at the Tokyo sumo stadium, the Ryoguko Kokugikan.  We lucked out that our visit coincided with the Tokyo tournament and that my mom was able to get us last minute tickets to day eleven of the fifteen-day-long sport event.  It was every bit as exciting as I remembered!  No one I know, not even my mom's friends, have been to see sumo live.  And friends from my own generation have the overwhelming belief that it must be hugely boring to attend.  THEY COULDN'T BE MORE WRONG.  It is difficult to explain the thrill of seeing these huge, strong, beef-cake dudes slamming and slapping each other into oblivion; the three minute wait as they face off; the showmanship of the salt throwing; the Yokozuna Harumafuji and his signature pushup at the line of scrimmage. 

It was all totally wonderful.

When we first arrived, though, it was still the Juryo matches.  Some were fast and finished right away; others would end up in a deadlock for what seemed like minutes before the victor threw his opponent down.  On several occasions the two monoliths seemed to hit the ground simultaneously, and then the referee sitting on that side of the mound would give his call.

But one time, after the ref gave his call, all the refs stood up and convened in the ring.

My mom leaned toward John and I and informed us:

Someone detested the ruling.

"I'm sure someone did!" said John, as I laughed

My mom now scowls at John, too.  It's a sure sign that he's a member of the family!

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. 

A rock and a hard place

My mom suffers the same inclination of many people from her generation which is to refer to all people of Asian descent as 'Orientals,' a term that, growing up in the PC 80s, was eradicated from my vocabulary long ago but persists in hers despite my valiant efforts to update her outmoded terminology. Or maybe it's in spite of my efforts, but I digress. Talking to her about perpetuating this semi-racist usage only inspires her to argue about her rights since she herself is Oriental. My people-are-not-rugs-logic has never gotten me anywhere.

On her trip to NYC in February, of course she said Oriental and I expected to have this perennial interaction of me saying, "Use 'Asian'" and her saying, "Why?" followed by the usual back-and-forth ending with her above-mentioned go-to justification: "I'm one so I can say it if I want to."

Not to say that we didn't have just that, but after the requisite (and now more than two-decades old) song-and-dance, my mom paused, looked at me thoughtfully then announced her compromise.

"Well, can I just call myself a Jap then?"

A rock and a hard place.