This past May we went on a long-anticipated trip to Japan. For three weeks, we walked, ate, observed, photographed, and talked our way through some of the major cities and smaller rural areas. We practised the little phrases of Japanese we had learned (I spent almost an hour trying to perfect my pronounciation of konbanwa, or “good evening” – to then have the elation of greeting an elderly local man who responded in kind). We practised bowing: to 7-Eleven shop clerks, to Michelin-star chefs, to grandmas making soba noodles, to shrines, to empty rooms. We practised living with complete presence and dedicated self-reflection, as it would turn out to not only be an outward journey, but also an inward one.
My admiration and fascination with the Japanese way of living started when I was a child. Growing up Chinese, I felt like the loud, penny-pinching, gaudy ways of my Hong Kong ancestors were garish and unruly compared to the images of Japanese culture that I knew: refined, quiet, serene. With time and experience, I can now see how simplistic and unfair those ideas were, but as my consciousness grows, I am also awakened to having an inferiority complex for being a first generation immigrant.
I can definitely remember as a child wanting to be blonde, fair, and freckled. I wanted to fit in, to be considered pretty and sweet. Instead I felt dark, both on the outside and within.
I don’t feel like blaming anyone for that. I could point to the media, systemic discrimination, poor role models – but it wouldn’t matter much. If I decide to play victim, then I would just stay in hurt and resentment. I wouldn’t get anywhere. Instead, I’d rather learn and grow. I’d rather find my own version of brightness and radiance.
Going to Japan was, in an unexpected but welcome way, a sort of homecoming to my own ethnic heritage and cultural upbringing. Little daily things like drinking copious amounts of tea, using chopsticks, having meals centered around rice – I hadn’t realized up until this point that I had put these aside as a way to fit in to some idea of what it was to be “normal”, and when I rediscovered them in a country whose homogeneity made these culinary rituals ordinary to the point of mundane, it was like finding a long-lost favourite old sweater in the back of the closet, putting it on, and feeling like myself again.
One of my yoga teachers once said that those of us who grew up in predominantly Judeo-Christian communities would likely have to find their way back to spirituality/religion through something that felt completely different, like a Buddhist practice. He meant that sometimes it’s too close, too raw, and too triggering, to find spirituality through a modality in which you know the ins and outs of its flaws and letdowns.
In a way, Japan was that for me: through my experiences there, I can now start to fully embrace the beauty and wisdom of my own culture, that my parents tried painstakingly to pass on to me, so that I could remember where and who I came from.
However, that isn’t to flip completely and forget the unappetizing aspects of my ancestry (of which there are many). But everyone has blood on their hands, no one is perfect, and individuals and communities alike are in a process. There’s always more work to do.
When I was sick as a child, my parents would always make me a hot drink of ginger, lemon and honey (TONS of honey). They would slice fresh ginger into a mug, squeeze in a bunch of honey and a spritz of lemon, and pour hot water over. It was a simple salve of love.
We’d also have stir-fried vegetables with slices of fresh ginger mixed in. It was an entertaining moment to see someone’s face twist up when they inadvertently bit into a chunk of ginger!
Pickled ginger is something that I have only encountered in Japanese cooking. It is the perfect spicy and sour hit to balance the sweet and soothing notes of the rest of the meal, and a great way to speed along digestion.
In my longing to be back in Japan, I decided to make my own pickled ginger. It is so simple and easy to do, that the resulting gratification is quite disproportionate to the effort required. I make a 500 ml jar of it and it lasts for about a month in the fridge. When all the ginger is gone, I use the pickling liquid to make an impromptu salad dressing with tahini and turmeric (ratios eye-balled). The frugality of my ancestors (and all our ancestors really, didn’t everyone starve at least once?!) lives on.
Here’s to finding your way home, wherever that might be.
Pickled ginger, or beni shoga, is only pink due to the addition of red shiso leaves. I don’t bother, and the ginger keeps its natural creamy yellow hue.
Pickled Ginger
(adapted from Seductions of Rice: A Cookbook, by Jeffrey Alford and Naomi Duguid)
1 lb ginger (a large handful-ish)
2 tbsp sea salt
1.5 cups rice vinegar
1/4 cup sugar
Peel the ginger using the edge of a spoon. You can keep the ginger skin, dry it, and mix it into your own tea blend.
Then, using a mandolin slicer or a very sharp knife, slice the ginger crosswise very thinly. Set aside any awkward knobs for making tea with.
In a bowl, toss 1 tsp of the salt with the ginger slices and let it stand for 10 minutes. Then rinse off the ginger with boiling water and drain well.
Gently heat the vinegar, sugar, and remaining 1 tbsp plus 2 tsp salt in a small saucepan until the sugar has completely dissolved. Meanwhile, fill a 500 ml mason jar with boiling water, then drain it – this is to somewhat sterilize the jar.
Use tongs or chopsticks to place the ginger in the jar, then pour the hot vinegar mixture over it. Screw on the lid, and keep it in the fridge. Wait 24 hours before using it for the first time.
