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. 

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.

The KMpire strikes back

My mom and entourage of Ogura san and his grandson, Yuki the KM (standing for kari-mago meaning borrowed grandchild in the KY Japanese tradition), arrived from the hot and muggy hell of Tokyo today. We drove up to San Francisco to pick up John before going to get burritos in the Mission. The KM, who is now 12, was marveling at how cold and foggy it was out in the avenues.  We tried to translate the oft quoted Twainism that he maybe never said, about the coldest winter he'd ever spent was a summer in San Francisco, but Yuki was nonplussed to say the least.

Anyway, Mission and 22nd was warmer than the avenues, though this pleasantness was offset slightly by the crazy and/or homeless people milling about.  We had arrived at our dining destination: La Corneta.  It's the kind of place with a dauntingly long menu in an exceedingly small font on the wall, where you order at the counter and the hungry people waiting in the long line behind you hope that you're decisive. Being with a bunch of Japanese folks for whom the differences between tacos and burritos isn't ingrained,  and who will likely only be confused if I told them that either consists of meat, beans and cheese in a tortilla (a nod to Jim Gaffigan here), in the interest of time I suggest we just get burritos all around since they are super.

The only choice, then, is which meat from the usual options of chicken, carnitas, asada steak and shrimp.  So having bypassed the need to translate the various food-type options and feeling pressured by the looming line behind us, my mom turns to the KM and says, "Do you want chicken? Or beef?..."

And before she could say anything else, the kid's retorts in bored tones, "It's not like this is an airplane."

A dry and sardonic tween? Or has the apple not fallen far from the Ogura san grandfather tree?

Be 'heartened & 'meaned!

My mother will visit Los Angeles shortly and had planned to stay with her friend in Diamond Bar, but I learned last night that she will be staying in an empty house.  "They're going to be in London, so we'll just stay there ourselves," she told me.

"Why are they going to London?" I asked, not thinking.

"Well, their friends' son is playing in some game," she answered.

Silence proceeded as I processed and it occurred to me that the Olympics are beginning and may have some bearing on my mom's statement.  In fact, as I become certain that is what she mean, I utter with disbelief,  "You mean he's in the Olympics?!"

"Yes," she says.

I try to convince her that 'play' is not the right verb, nor 'game' the correct noun.

"You should say 'compete' and 'sport;' it's demeaning to say 'play' and 'games.'"

Of course, "whatever" was her response.

Good luck to all those athletes who will be playing some games in London this Olympics. 

Forget disheartened or demeaned! Remember, if you lose, it was only a game you were playing and of no further consequence.

Feeling and Nothingness

The past two weeks have been a frenzy of preparations to leave this city that has been home to me for years now. The last box is sealed, all the cabinets are empty and the quiet silence that is no computer, no TV, no radio has given me a space to pause and consider and finally, after all this, feel sad to be leaving. It's been hard not to let emotions get the upper-hand when looking at the distant Manhattan skyline as I walk toward the subway, a view I saw on my way to work every weekday for so long, or looking at the beautiful decay of the brick railroad apartment buildings on my block, or at the tears in my 93-year-old neighbors eyes when she says she will always remember me and John and "Yo quiero mucho mucho," or, or, or. The list is growing. 

I spoke to my mom tonight and told her I was feeling a bit sad now that the busy-ness has subsided. I remembered that she also moved west after living in New York in the late 60s, so I asked her, "What did you feel when you left New York?"  There was a pregnant pause before she made her considered and thoughtful reply:

"Nothing."

I won't reiterate my firm stance that my mother may be a robot, but I forgive her this because a) she's always looking forward which is a good lesson for me (who is always looking back)  lest I be turned in to a pillar of salt and b) she said the word 'tish' again during the conversation and it doesn't get much cuter than that!!

New York: I'm gonna miss you. But I'll be back.

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.