Esca-tarian

I’m continuing the Batali tour in New York City. Last night's tasting menu at Esca:

Crudo del Mercato: Raw Seafood
Prosecco, Carpene Malvolti
Crudo is like Italian sashimi. Sea urchin and the peppered fish were my favorites. Our waiter, Bert (one of five Roberts who started working there, he got the name “Bert”; others got Rob, Robert, Bobby, Robbie), encouraged us to sip the bubbly and eat the crudo simultaneously to enhance the flavors.

A) Oyster, B) Scallops, and C) A very good fish (my favorite of the 3)

A) The hamachi-like fish, B) A nameless fish, and C) Sea urchin (yum)

Mazzancolle: Grilled Louisiana Shrimp with Fennel Vinaigrette
Muller Thurgau, Graziano Fontana, 2005, Trentino
I loved the vegetables, but struggled a bit with the shrimp. My mum likes to invoke the Hawaiian term kapulu whenever I am involved with cleaning shellfish or dishes.

I am no expert at cleaning shellfish

Gambe di Rane: Crispy Frogs Legs with House Pickled Vegetables and Mustard Vinaigrette
Petit Arvine, Les Cretes, 2004, Val D’Aosta
This was my first time trying frog legs. I felt conflicted, given my pescetarian inclination. But frogs are amphibians, so the lines are blurred. I loved the mustard sauce, but the real gem: those glossy, tangy red onions.

I already knew the Italian word, gambe, thanks to my football knowledge!

Ravioli di Gamberoni: Ruby Red Shrimp Ravioli with a Sauce of Horseradish and Herbs
Pallagrello Nero, Villa Caraffa, 2005, Campania
I regret there were only three ravioli. I wanted more. The smooth sauce went well with this wonderful red wine that hails from the area near the northern Italian/French border, if I recall correctly. At this point, I was very drunk (I was drunk off the prosecco during the second Crudo course).

What would make me happier than 3 ravioli? 10 ravioli.

Spigola Striaca: Striped Bass with Roasted Hubbard Squash and Caramelized Endive
Teroldego, Foradori, 2004, Trentino
Mario Batali knows squash. And I know I love squash. The fish was slightly crispy. Bert described the red wine as resembling a Bordeaux, except it is made entirely with one type of grape. I was very drunk.

Squash is good for you (and me).

EXTRA course! Goat Cheese, Pear, and Honey
Teroldego, continued
We were taking too long finishing our wine, so Bert offered us a cheese plate to help. It was not part of the tasting menu. The cheese was delicious, better than the cheese course at Babbo. Did I mention I was inebriated?

Cheese, or: why I can never go vegan

Dolci: Apple Crumble, Chocolate Cake with Espresso Gelato, and Lemon Cake
Moscato, Rivetti, 2005, Piemonte
I smiled at the servers’ superb judgment: they gave me the chocolate dessert. Borracha! Me gusta el vino. We had espresso to finish the night.

Chocolate + moscato = happy Robin

Fluffy lemon cake garnished with kiwi and blood orange

Biscuit-topped apple goodness (not my birthday)

One of the best things about Esca is the incredible service. Bert was friendly, cheerful, and full of knowledge. The restaurant is not as rigid as Babbo (although the music is just as random: Gin Blossoms, Moby, G&R, Death Cab). And although I preferred the wine pairings at Babbo, the portions at Esca were not as overwhelming, allowing the latter courses to shine.

By most standards, I’ve had a lousy week. My bike got stolen on Saturday. I lost my wallet, passport, and driver’s license (and I have a plane to catch on Sunday). But last night, as I lingered over this heavenly meal for four hours whilst the snow fell softly outside, I experienced joy. Sure, I’m too simple sometimes. But I like food, football, and…films.

Buon Appetito!

Ladri di biciclette (parte due)

I just returned from the 7th precinct of the NYPD. The clerk and I both filled out forms, fully understanding the futility of our efforts.

I glanced around the cluttered reception area. Bulletin board notices meant for staff were visible on the angled wall: instructions on how to address certain requests (MOS Tours? Apparently, if you ask about these mysterious MOS tours, they will just take your name and phone number), dues collection for some kind of community club, and the NYPD rules and mission. One particular flier caught my eye:

When you feel the world is closing in on you...pick up the phone, NOT your firearm!!!

***

I told my mum what happened when she rang me earlier this morning. A couple of hours later, she rang back, asking me how often I rode my bike and whether I wore a helmet (I don't). She passed the phone to my dad, who asked (in a very somber tone) if someone might have known my routine and followed me. He handed the phone back to Mrs. K., who then offered to get me a new one. I felt incredibly touched by this kind gesture, but I couldn't accept. It would upset me too much if a second bike of mine—another gift—were to be stolen.

I don't like it when things disappear, expire, or end. Indeed, I have written about this topic before. In the case of material things, like the bicycle or a Hello Kitty lipgloss or even some romantic relationships, the moment of separation is often worse than the loss of the thing itself.

The Bicycle Thief

Poor Bruno in Vittorio De Sica's 1948 classic

Today, whilst I was buying a T-shirt for my arts and crafts project at around 5 P.M. in the crowded LES, someone stole my bicycle. I had removed the seat and was in the store for about 15-20 minutes. When I returned, all I found was a cut cable and the clueless homeless man still sitting on a bench nearby.

There’s nothing like the shock of theft, no matter how petty. In D.C., someone broke into my car two times, just to steal the stereo. I recall the shattered glass and the ensuing panic as I scrambled to assess the damage.

Perhaps I had it coming. New York is the #1 city in the U.S. for bike theft, according to Kryptonite. A 1992 Cyclist Survey study cites an average of 1.03 thefts per cyclist. I used minimal protection with the cable lock my roommate gave me with the bicycle. It’s a slight step up from leaving it unlocked, according to Slate’s recommendation for the best lock.

I also figured that I only use my bicycle during the day in crowded areas, and that I left it locked up for short amounts of time. But this charming video shows how easy it is to steal a bike in the city, and how people don’t ask questions and/or just don’t care (I don’t think this characteristic is limited to bicycle theft). So much for the “If you see something, say something” MTA campaign.

Still, let this be a warning for anyone in or near the LES who has a bike that looks like mine: I will tackle first and ask questions later.

Allez Les Bleus!

Michel Platini has been elected the new UEFA president today. The 51-year-old football legend served as personal adviser to FIFA president Sepp Blatter for eight years; both place greater emphasis on the social aspect of the game rather than the financial.

He has already promised to reduce the number of Champions League spots to three per nation, instead of four, which does not prove favorable for England, Germany, Italy, and Spain. Other changes are expected. Will he elevate and transform the game now from an administrative role?

One of his quotes suggests a philosophy with great things to come:

“Football truly is an extraordinary education for life.”

Curious Orange

This past Christmas, I received gifts with a similar theme:

Because I get thirsty during yoga

Because I want to know how many Robins there are in NYC

Because I'm raw, like sushi

I think I’ve got orange in my blood after reading the chapter on the Netherlands in The Thinking Fan’s Guide to the World Cup. Dutch “total football” (totaalvoetbal), epitomized by legendary chain-smoking striker Johan Cruyff, promotes spatial awareness: creating and managing space through a dynamic system of interchanging players and positions. It makes for a much more exciting game than the defensive catennacio.

The book describes a few “very Dutch” characteristics:

• Bicycle culture
• Politeness and frankness
• Novel solutions to social and environmental problems
• Well-traveled and jocular
• Not getting particularly worked up about things

These traits, the writer argues, set up a different system in which total football could thrive. It makes sense, then, that I would be attracted to both the culture and football style of a country. The “world’s tallest people living on the world’s flattest land” have produced the likes of Robin van Persie and Arjen Robben, two of my current favorite football namesakes. And to this day, a certain timbre of bicycle bell will take me back instantly to Amsterdam and put a smile on my face.

My football books have given me a nice survey of the history, philosophy, style, culture, and fans of many teams and nations. So far, I’ve settled on Ajax Amsterdam and FC Barcelona. In the EPL, it’s Arsenal.

But stay tuned. I’m only up to the letter “P.”

Another {unlikely} theory of globalization

My favorite chapters of The Thinking Fan’s Guide to the World Cup so far have covered Iran and Brazil. But now I’m onto something familiar: the land of the rising sun.

I can trace my ancestry back to 13^th century samurai. The family property in Yanai, Japan, dates back more than 300 years to the Tokugawa era. The haka, or family burial site, contains the ashes of our ancestors from centuries past. My great grandparents emigrated from Japan to Hawaii in 1901 (note: first two photos below are of their children).

The Original Mr. & Mrs. K (I come from excellent stock)

Mr. & Mrs. Y

Mr. & Mrs. K

I am yonsei, a fourth-generation American. I speak some Spanish, but no Japanese. I went to a Presbyterian church in my childhood, but also observed Buddhist rituals. During Thanksgiving, my mother would serve turkey, stuffing, and sushi. At the local Japanese market I shop at almost every day, I'm probably known as “the girl who looks so Japanese, but isn't.” It’s an amalgamation of cultures I’ve come to see as the norm.

The football essay on Japan goes into the Japanese tendency towards “chaotic culture sampling.” The Japanese are the originators of the mash-up. One Japanese football team is called Gamba Osaka, named after the Italian word for “leg”; it is also a homophone in Japanese for the verb “to try hard” (as in gambatte kudasai, something I heard from my Japanese sensei a little too often). The author goes into the melding of Buddhism with Shinto beliefs, along with the sampling of systems from England, Prussia, France, and the United States—borrowing the best from each culture and making it Japanese. He talks about the popularity of baseball, and how football is now eclipsing it as the nation’s favorite sport.

During the waves of immigration to Hawaii and California, Japanese leaders advocated two kinds of assimilation. The favored tactic, called gaimenteki doka, focused on outward appearances only. Under this plan, all Japanese immigrants adopted American clothing and households. Wives were told to walk next to their husbands instead of behind them to further prove successful assimilation. They also began to observe the Sabbath and American holidays. The second type of assimilation, called naimenteki doka, was less favored. Proponents of this plan not only adopted American external mannerisms, but American values and thoughts, such as democratic beliefs and Christianity. But no matter how forced or voluntary the assimilation, some characteristics endure. Eight centuries past my samurai roots, I still have that “violent blood” coursing through me.

Wakon yosai means “Japanese spirit, Western learning”; it embodies what a German economist described as Japan’s “plasticity” and “endurance”: the ability to absorb foreign influences without sacrificing its singular identity. In football, we look towards national teams to manifest certain qualities: the Germans are disciplined and hard-working; the Brazilians, passionate and stylish; the South Koreans, energetic and plucky; and the Ukrainians, methodical and grim. There are some traits in people that just won’t go away, even after centuries of assimilation or displacement. So when they combine or clash on the pitch, you’re left with little choice. You cheer, you shout, and you watch to see what happens next.

Blue Monday

Rumpoey & Dum in Tears of the Black Tiger

Over the weekend, I watched Tears of the Black Tiger, the Thai western movie Miramax locked up for five years. It’s entertaining and visually stimulating, with jelly guts flying in the air against a cotton candy backdrop. At one point, the main character says, “It seems that life is just a long and terrible sadness; and so we must hunger and chase after happiness and the smallest hope of reprieve 'til the end of our days.”

A couple of weeks after the NYT “Happiness 101” article topped the most-emailed list, we have come full circle with the “Most Depressing Day of the Year.” Surely a marketing gimmick for the Welsh-based psychologist, the most miserable Monday is an annual news story. With a “scientifically calculated” date, this time of year marks the post-holiday blues: Christmas is long gone, the weather is cold, people have credit card debt from the holidays, and New Year’s resolutions are floundering.

The psychologist says the happiest day of the year will be Friday, June 22^nd. But I feel just fine now. June 22^nd will be too hot and humid, and one feels the social pressure to be out ‘n about. With the cold weather, I enjoy reading books, drinking wine, listening to music, watching footie, going to museums, and watching films.

I decided to take the Penn psychology survey mentioned in the Times located on the school's “authentic happiness” site. This 240-question test measures your signature strengths. Out of 24 strengths, here are my top 5:

1. Curiosity and interest in the world: You are curious about everything. You are always asking questions, and you find all subjects and topics fascinating. You like exploration and discovery.
2. Appreciation of beauty and excellence: You notice and appreciate beauty, excellence, and/or skilled performance in all domains of life, from nature to art to mathematics to science to everyday experience.
3. Creativity, ingenuity, and originality: Thinking of new ways to do things is a crucial part of who you are. You are never content with doing something the conventional way if a better way is possible.
4. Love of learning: You love learning new things, whether in a class or on your own. You have always loved school, reading, and museums-anywhere and everywhere there is an opportunity to learn.
5. Judgment, critical thinking, and open-mindedness: Thinking things through and examining them from all sides are important aspects of who you are. You do not jump to conclusions, and you rely only on solid evidence to make your decisions. You are able to change your mind.

The capacity to love and be loved was #9. Fairness, self-control, forgiveness, citizenship, modesty, and spirituality were near the bottom.

Robinho —> Robben —> Robin

Dutch-on-Dutch crime: Van Persie scores against Van der Sar

I had just finished reading Nick Hornby’s chapter on England in The Thinking Fan’s Guide to the World Cup when I trekked into the cold this morning to join the thronging masses supporting Manchester United and Hornby’s beloved Gunners.

The place was packed for the 11 AM kickoff. One thing I learned quickly: these people are insane. I saw many Henry, Fabregas, Bergkamp, and Rosicky jerseys; I saw shaved heads; I saw lots of tall blokes and spilled Guinness; and I heard enough cries of “Wanker!” to last a lifetime.

Since the 2006 World Cup, I’ve been weighing my options on a new football jersey purchase. Originally, Robinho from Brazil seemed like a no-brainer. But we know how that played out. Then, watching the EPL games in the fall, I started to think about Arjen Robben. But I can’t bring myself to support Chelsea. After today’s game, a new contender emerged when Dutchman Robin van Persie's strike in the 82^nd minute canceled out Wayne Rooney’s goal. A brilliant header by Thierry Henry would finish off the EPL leaders three minutes into stoppage time.

We were packt like sardines in a crushd tin box. I felt short and insignificant, deprived of my personal space. The five guys in Arsenal jerseys nearby were large and sweaty. The loud American to my right kept yelling in my ear about which players would be substituted in next. He made boorish predictions about a 2-0 Man. U win. I thought longingly of my AARP earplugs at home. The crowd sang sophisticated chants: “We love you Arsenal, we do” and another one that involved a lot of bad words. After the Van Persie goal, they sang “You’re not singing anymore/No, you’re not singing anymore.” Someone spilled beer on my leg (I think it was beer).

If I had to take a guess, the fan breakdown was 70/30 Arsenal to Manchester United. No matter our affiliation, we pressed up against one another, sweaty and tired of standing for 90+ minutes. But what fun! With the 82’ goal, we cheered and yelled unintelligible, happy sentiments at one another. “Go ROBIN!!!” I shouted. One group sang a Robin van Persie song. But it was the Henry goal that brought down the house. I felt the wooden floor shake, and the smegma of beer stains from years past couldn’t keep my feet to the floor. I high-fived strangers and felt an unexpected euphoria. I loved knowing that at that very same moment, around the globe, people were cheering (or swearing), reacting to the same thing. We were united by this game.

That is why I am so fascinated with football and the World Cup. Because it is during moments like these—on a massive scale—that everything else ceases to matter: work, stress, heartbreak, politics, religion, bullshit.

This is how it should be: peace achieved, 90 minutes at a time.

You can never replace anyone.

Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy in Before Sunset

I watched Before Sunset again. Celine, Julie Delpy's character, says a few words on the boat that are incredibly moving and emotional to me, because I could’ve said them verbatim:

I always feel like a freak because I'm never able to move on like…this! You know. People just have an affair, or even entire relationships. They break up and they forget. They move on like they would have changed brand of cereals.

I feel I was never able to forget anyone I've been with because each person…they own specific qualities. You can never replace anyone. What is lost is lost.

Each relationship, when it ends, really damages me. I never fully recover. That's why I'm very careful with getting involved, because it hurts too much—even getting laid. I actually don't do that…because I will miss of the person the most mundane things.

Like I'm obsessed with little things. Maybe I'm crazy, but...When I was a little girl, my mom told me that I was always late to school. One day she followed me to see why. I was looking at chestnuts falling from the trees rolling on the sidewalk or ants crossing the road...the way a leaf casts a shadow on a tree trunk—little things.

I think it's the same with people. I see in them little details, so specific to each of them that move me and that I miss and…will always miss.

You can never replace anyone because everyone is made of such beautiful, specific details.

My ability to remember minute details is both a blessing and a curse. I can remember what I was wearing on April 1^st of last year; I recall what I ate that day. I remember patterns on wallpaper, smells and textures, the titles of books on bookshelves, and dialogue like movie scripts.

I look back fondly on my time in Paris. I remember how elegant Boyfriend #2 looked in his black ribbed sweater when he emerged from the shadows that evening at the Louvre, our rendezvous spot. He smelled of fresh laundry detergent. I wanted to kiss him immediately, so I did. I remember laughing loudly in the Jardin des Tuileries as he effortlessly tossed me over his shoulder and carried me across the lawn when I told him I was too heavy to lift. I remember holding hands near the Seine at night and the smell of his aftershave as I sat on his lap whilst a tourist boat floated by, shining its spotlight on us. I remember his valiant efforts to give me a copy of The Da Vinci Code, and how I resisted, explaining to him why Dan Brown sucks. I remember his coconut shampoo that I borrowed, and how I could still detect the faint scent in my hair the next day. I recall waking up at 5 AM to the smell of powdered coffee coming from the kitchen; it tasted as good as anything served in the cafés on the street below. When we said goodbye on the Metro—he was going to class, I was going to be a tourist—he stood up in the middle of the train and kissed me in front of everyone. It felt natural.

I also remember motorbike guy and how we watched Jane Fonda debating a panel of guests in elementary French on a talk show. I remember the odd inflection to his voice and the way it rose an octave whenever he disagreed with me. I remember how quickly he devoured his yogurt after dinner, and the meticulous way in which he poured a little pile of sugar on top of it first (careful not to spill). I also remember the light rain that fell as he drove me back to my flat on his motorcycle late at night, and how we stopped at a traffic light along the Seine. The city was silent and practically deserted; the reflection of light on the wet pavement made everything glow. He put his hand on mine and drove with one hand for the rest of the ride back. Memory can be a wonderful thing.

All I need to do is think back to a time, and I can conjure up a moment from eight years ago better than most people can remember last week. But sometimes I am jealous of people with bad memories. They are usually men (NPR aired a story on this called "Why Men Never Remember and Women Never Forget"). They can forget things so easily, and place them into little files to shove away for the time being. Memories are bittersweet when they represent beautiful moments that are forever lost.

That is why I am never able to forget someone. I notice in people such specific qualities and behaviors, and I miss them—even the most trivial things. One person used to do something most people would never notice: when walking down the street, if we happened upon a fire hydrant, person, or any obstruction, he would never let it come between us. He would always walk right next to me, even if it meant taking a slightly longer path. I noticed and appreciated it. To this day, I look for that behavior in others and make silent predictions in my head based on their performance. No one has done it since.

You can never replace anyone.

MisMatch.com

So I’m sitting here at my favorite café drinking tea whilst writing my letter of motivation. I took a break to watch some Maradona clips: the famous “hand of God” goal and the “goal of the century”—both from the 1986 England-Argentina World Cup match.

Argentinians have a term called gambetta, which describes nerve and impossible skill in the beautiful game. Maradona epitomized gambetta in the “goal of the century,” in which he dribbles past six English defenders to score. I love his explanation to Gary Lineker about the “hand of God” goal: it was like “pick-pocketing the English”; it wasn’t cheating. You see him taking a couple of quick, nervous glances at the officials before celebrating. So in the same spectacular game, Maradona exhibited the duality of gambetta to the world: superhuman talent combined with a questionable craftiness.

Last night I caught a glimpse of my World Cup boyfriend, Hugo Viana, scoring a goal for Valencia. I got a lot of flack when he missed that big free kick during the Cup. Text messages poured in to the tune of “Your boyfriend can’t shoot.” But, he looks pretty damn good. He turns 24 tomorrow. Tengo que ir a la España.

Hugo gets the thumbs up from me

Celebrating the 3-1 penalty kick shootout win over England

So back to the original intent of this post: during a pause between Maradona clips, I overheard the guy behind me talking about Match.com. I shut off the audio on my laptop, but kept my earphones in. I quickly realized what was going on: the Asian dude and a white woman behind me were on a first Match.com date.

Here are snippets from their conversation:

• He said: “Yes, I’ve met a few people on Match.com before.” [read: I’ve met 28 women in the past month.]
• She said: “I’ve only had one other meeting on this thing. It was very pleasant. We went to an art gallery. I prefer to keep the first date to a casual meeting, and I don’t like talking on the phone much at first.” [read: He didn’t ring me back.]
• She said: “I’m hoping it’s not a lot of these first meetings and that’s it. It takes a while to build a connection.” [read: He didn't ring me back. I’ve got a great personality.]
• She said: “What I would like to see happen is…let’s say after I talk to you, we’ll just feel free to email and talk some more, you know? I’m even happy to meet people for friendships. It doesn’t have to be all serious or sad.” [read: I’ve got to weigh my options, and if I do contact you later and you don’t respond, it doesn’t mean I was really interested.]

Then it gets bad:

• She said: “Some people go by pictures. What do you go by, from a guy’s perspective?” [read: Did you think I was hot?]
• She said: “I’m interested in hearing your views on religion.” [read: I’m going to totally judge you on this one. Answer carefully.]

Then, the bastards at the café started to turn up the music, right when it was getting interesting. Luckily, I was able to strain to hear more:

• He responds, “Hmm, I’ve been meaning to go to church, but…” [read: I’m trying to be politic about this, but I’m slowly responding to gauge your reaction before deciding what’s the proper answer.]
• She says, “My mom says I should go to church to meet a nice guy, but I’m not going to do that.” [read: I’m above certain things.]
• He says, “Yes, when you can go on the Internet to find a nice guy.” [read: You’ve got me, sweetcheeks.]
• Then she started talking about her ex-boyfriend and the Tamil Tigers [read: I’ve got an interesting past filled with fascinating lovers. You should feel lucky to be in consideration.]
• And then about her Masters program and her Ph.D and how her professor was this “fatuous, crazy guy.” [read: I’m smart and well-educated and independent. Until week 3, when I will ring you constantly and call you my boyfriend.]

Okay, then I tuned out. I started watching more football clips. Oh wait, now they are talking about eHarmony. She says she never meets financial guys on that site. Now they are talking about travel. There is no chemistry going on here. But I bet they will go out again.

I am a bit of a voyeur. But I would like something with a bit more drama. So I think I may go watch 24.

The Beckoning

It has finally happened: the disturbingly pretty David Beckham has bid Real Madrid adios. Not terribly shocking, considering the following:

• New MLS “designated player rule”: no salary cap for one player per team. Ca-ching! $250 million over the next five years to finance Old Spice’s plastic surgeries and his wardrobe and hair transformations
• Career decline: dropped from England’s national team by Steve McClaren on August 11th; demoted from Real Madrid’s starting lineup this season
• New prospects: a career in Hollywood? At 31, he’s taking a similar approach to Posh when her dubious career took a nosedive: she married Becks and became a footballer’s wife

So can you blame him? He’s taking the fat paycheck, a comfortable lifestyle, and that plastic city of all cities, Los Angeles—all whilst getting cozy with Katie and Tom. His taste in women is foul, his tattoos are numerous and gross, and that risible fragrance ad of his is enough to make anyone vomit. But, he is still talented and hot. I’d pay to watch him play.

How to fuck up an ad with an impossibly photogenic man? Like so.

The deal has given other MLS teams the green light to import ageing talent. Ronaldo’s next. Is this merely a repeat of Pelé’s arrival to the New York Cosmos in the ‘70s? Is America ready for soccer this time around? My recent experience on the local pitches of New York indicates that it is. There’s solid, homegrown talent on those fields without a bona fide outlet in this country.

But will I be tuning in to MLS over EPL? To borrow a word from one of Posh’s old songs: MLS is just a wannabe.

iWant iPhone

As Steve Jobs unveiled the revolutionary iPhone at MacWorld yesterday, I experienced another form of smart technology in my inbox. I've been talking a lot about passion lately:

(Click to enlarge)

It's smartspam.

Life & Times of Robin K

After the dripfeed buffets, stifling smoke, and life support slot machines of Vegas, I felt relieved to be back in California. I read, watched movies, and spent time with friends and family.

I drove (a lot) whilst listening to KCRW

I sang

I hung out with crippled Mexicans

I ate lots of good food

I explained the Hegelian dialectic at the NYE headwear party

Benny tried to teach us how to create plumes of smoke

We didn't fare so well

(That's just apple-flavored tobacco.)

Simultaneous dual-camera action

Peace, love, and ozoni

January 1, 2007: ozoni for breakfast

New Year’s Day marks an opportunity for growth and transformation. It is one of the most important holidays celebrated in Japan. Every year for as long as I can recall, I’ve woken up in the morning (or afternoon) to a bowl of ozoni, a traditional Japanese “good luck” soup containing mochi and other ingredients. These ingredients vary by a family’s place of origin: coastal denizens tend to use shrimp, kelp, fish, and other seafood, while inlanders near the mountains might use chicken and winter vegetables.

My mum uses a very basic broth (chicken or vegetable stock). Traditionally, one makes her own suimono using kelp, bonito flakes, shoyu, and other ingredients. Mrs. K joins mizuna (Japanese mustard green), clams, pink and white kamaboko (fish paste cake), egg, and nori with the broth. She then adds toasted mochi hot from the oven for a wonderful morning meal.

It is important to add the mochi last. I know other cooks who add it whilst the soup simmers; it ends up mushy, with the mouthfeel lost in a liquid confusion. You want the mochi lightly browned on top so it has a crisp outside followed by a pleasing, delectably chewy center. This contrast of textures is crucial. A shiver of delight runs through me when I pick the perfect piece of mochi—inflated to an amorphous mass—with a crispy, flaky shell that yields joyously in my mouth and crumbles into a cavernous space leading to the hot, gooey starch.

The tradition of having ozoni whilst watching the Rose Parade brings our family together almost every year. Associating food with good luck isn’t limited to the soup, though. It is a tradition of osechi ryori, Japanese New Year cuisine. Almost every food is associated with good health, fortune, fertility, or happiness. My family takes an informal approach to osechi ryori, normally presented in lacquered boxes following strict order and style.

Kazunoko, a very crunchy fish egg, is a symbol of fertility. As a child, I would beg to taste it when I heard my parents crunching happily away. But it is an acquired taste, which I have yet to acquire.

Kazunoko has the most pleasing crunch you'll ever know (from Flickr)

I have acquired the taste for nishime, a simmered dish containing lotus root, konbu (seaweed tied in a knot), gobo (burdock root), carrot, bamboo, and taro (sometimes chicken is included). My favorites are the bamboo and konbu; I’d get in trouble for hogging those pieces only. Oishii!

Nutritious and delicious nishime (lifted from Flickr)

We also eat kuromame, Japanese sweet black beans. Usually this is a tiny dish, because nobody likes these beans. Rumor has it, the more beans you eat, the greater your luck will be throughout the year. But I don’t buy it. Last year I ate more than a dozen beans.

The ever popular kuromame (also from Flickr)

This year, I didn’t have any black beans. Here’s to a joyful 2007.