I Love You So Mochi

by Sarah Kuhn

  Akira’s uncle is already gearing up for “the demonstration” as we hustle up to the mochi stand.

  “Ah, here is my nephew!” he announces in English to the assembled crowd. It appears to be mostly tourists, a mix of ethnicities with backpacks, fanny packs, and guidebooks. “He is going to assist me.” Akira gives a little wave to the crowd.

  “This is an usu,” Uncle Okamoto says, gesturing to the thing standing next to him—a barrel-like wooden mortar. “And this”—he brandishes a large wooden mallet—“is a kine.”

  “Oh, he’s going to demonstrate how to make mochi!” I exclaim.

  “Yes, un, un,” Akira says, grinning at me. “Mochitsuki—the traditional mochi-pounding ceremony. Have you done it?”

  “Sort of,” I say. “My dad doesn’t always have the time or the man power to do a full-on mochitsuki—he tends to use those machines that form rice into mochi.”

  “Ah, but you still have to stir constantly when using those—ne?” Akira says. “Still much man power involved.”

  “Oh, definitely, but nothing like this,” I say. “Anyway, I’ve helped him when he’s using the machines—stirring the rice around—but not when he goes the whole mallet route. I’ve always been scared I’m going to smack something the wrong way. Or smack myself.”

  “The rice has been soaked overnight and steamed,” Uncle Okamoto continues, gesturing to the hot rice in the usu. “I have given it the initial kneading, and it is ready to be pounded into mochi. Akira … ?”

  Akira steps forward and kneels down next to the usu, dipping his fingers into a small pail of water.

  “My nephew will wet and turn the rice while I pound,” Uncle Okamoto says, holding his kine in the air like it’s a mighty sword. “This is a dangerous task because if I swing wrong, I could smash my favorite nephew’s precious fingers. And he wants to be a doctor someday!”

  “Oi!” Akira says, pulling a mock worried face. “Maybe you should find some other favorite nephew to help you with this, Ojisan!”

  “No!” Uncle says, shaking his head emphatically. “Must be you! But turn fast, I’m feeling extra strong today!”

  The crowd laughs and I join them. Akira and his uncle clearly have an established banter, a routine—but the warmth between them is real.

  Uncle lets out a yelp—a mochi battle cry, I suppose—and brings the mallet down on the rice with a hard smack that reverberates through the usu. Akira deftly slips his hand into the usu, flipping the rice and giving a little battle cry of his own. And then they get into a rhythm: Uncle smacking the rice, Akira flipping the rice, picking up the pace until I can hear the rice making that telltale thwacking sound that means it’s turning into the gloriously doughy mass that is mochi. I find myself picking up on the rhythm of the kine’s smack and swaying in time a little, as if it’s my favorite song. Smack-turn-smack-turn-SMACK!

  I love watching Akira and his uncle work this craft together, locked in a repetition they both know so well. Uncle’s face is red from exertion, but he’s clearly having the time of his life: swinging that mallet with gusto, his gaze trained on the glutinous rice mass as if it’s both his greatest rival and his biggest love. And Akira occasionally steals a well-timed look up at him, grinning and sharing in his uncle’s joy.

  The crowd applauds, cheers, and snaps photos—they’re enraptured. Akira and his uncle finally slow their rhythm and Uncle reaches down to touch the sticky mass now housed in the usu.

  “Good texture,” he proclaims, nodding his approval. “But I think it needs a few more pounds to be perfect, ne?” He hands the kine to Akira. “You try first, favorite nephew.”

  Akira stands and takes the mallet from Uncle, then looks over his shoulder and finds me in the crowd, giving me a wink. Then he focuses on the usu, as if sizing it up, and swings the mallet over his shoulder. His arm muscles ripple under the thin cotton of his T-shirt and sweat beads his brow as he brings the kine down hard, letting out a battle cry of his own. It makes the loudest smack yet.

  Atsuko would probably say he’s “peacocking,” trying to impress me with an athletic display of brute strength. I would say “yeah, and it’s totally working,” because that’s maybe the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.

  As if sensing my thoughts, Akira looks up and grins at me. I blush.

  “A good start, favorite nephew,” Uncle says. “Shall we see if anyone in the crowd would like to help us give it that final pound?”

  A nervous titter runs through the crowd, but no one steps forward. Probably they’re all afraid of messing up that perfect mochi—which, in addition to worrying about smacking myself in the face, is usually what’s on my mind whenever Dad suggests I take up the mallet. Surely one wrong smack from me and it will turn from a smooth, beautiful mass into something inedible.

  “Do not worry,” Uncle says to the crowd. “No one will be doing the mixing part while you have the kine, so there’s no danger of you smashing anyone’s fingers. It’s just you and the usu, my friends!”

  “I am pretty sure we can find someone, Ojisan,” Akira says, cocking an eyebrow. He steps forward, swinging the kine around, scanning the crowd. And of course, his eyes land on me.

  “Come forward, young lady,” he says, giving me a teasing half smile and holding out the kine. “You look very strong.”

  I don’t know what possesses me to take the kine from him. Normally I’d laugh it off and shoo him along to someone else. Maybe it’s because I’ve been doing so many things I’d normally do my best to avoid this spring break: kissing cute boys and making declarations and shoving myself through the nasal canals of sacred national monuments.

  I’ve been making a lot of things real instead of letting them just exist in fantasyland. And honestly, it’s been pretty fun. So what’s one more?

  Or maybe it’s because he’s just that handsome and his arms look just that good, especially now that he’s all sweaty and his T-shirt is sticking to him in all the right places, making for some very nice—

  “Come, come!” Uncle bellows, snapping me out of my arm-appreciating reverie. “Give us that final pound!”

  I step forward, brandishing the kine. It’s heavier than it looks, and I take pains to steady myself in front of the usu before I even attempt to swing it upward.

  “Do you need help?” Akira murmurs, coming up behind me. I get tingly the way I do whenever he’s close, a shiver going through me as his lips nearly graze my ear. “I can show you a good stance.”

  “I know how to hold a kine, Akira Okamoto,” I say. “I got this.”

  He steps away from me, grinning.

  I stare down at the sticky, glutinous mass in the usu again.

  You know what? I do got this. Er, have this? However you want to say it. I am going to swing the mallet and give the rice that final pound that will make it into perfect mochi.

  I swing the mallet upward, putting all my muscle into it. Then I let out a roar that seems to come from somewhere deep inside of me. It sounds scratchy and guttural and not quite as cool as Akira and Uncle’s battle cries. But so what? It works. And it feels so damn good.

  I bring the kine down hard, satisfaction blazing through me as it connects soundly with the usu. The smack it makes reverberates through my entire body—my arms are on fire, my ears ring.

  And suddenly I realize that making things real is more than just “pretty fun.” Making things real means I feel so many things all at once and on a truly visceral level—deep in my bones and my heart and my soul. And right now, all of those things feel amazing.

  I really need to tell Dad what to do about Liu Academy. The tuition deadline looms like a storm cloud, and you can only avoid a storm cloud for so long (okay, actually I’m pretty sure you can’t avoid a storm cloud, really, unless you’re starring in some kind of overblown disaster movie, and this is why I usually try to avoid nature-based metaphors).

  Akira and I have decided to consult some ghosts for help. We’re visiting an area of Kyoto where people supposedly go to meet
spirits, figuring that maybe we can determine my future by visiting the past.

  “Yokai Street,” Akira says, gesturing to the narrow path in front of us. At first glance, it looks like a fairly ordinary Kyoto side street, lined with modest family businesses and tucked away from the hustle and bustle of the big shopping arcades. The pace feels gentler, less frenetic—more in line with the calming countryside where my grandparents live, or the hidden-away cottage housing the pins and needles shop. But just like those places, if you look closer, there’s so much more to it.

  “Yokai are like monsters—spirits, ghosts, demons,” Akira says. “And as you can see, this street is full of them.”

  He gestures to the shops in front of us and I smile when I see what he’s talking about. Every business on the street has some kind of statue or sculpture of a fantastical-looking creature standing guard. The flower shop in front of us boasts a green lizard-like guy with mournful yellow eyes and a helmet-esque hat made out of a planter. It lurks among the various blooms for sale, a bit of magic amid the mundanity.

  “These are yokai?” I say, nodding at the sculptures.

  “Yes,” Akira says. “This is where people go to meet ghosts, and the street started to really embrace that idea and host functions about fifteen years ago. Now they have a big costume parade every year, people dressed as all kinds of monsters.”

  “How awesomely creepy,” I say. “Are the little statues specific yokai, or do the shop owners make them up?”

  “Some of them are based on actual creatures from Japanese folklore,” Akira says. He gestures to our green lizard friend. “This fellow could be a kappa, for instance—a water-dwelling demon. But some of them”—he gestures down the way to a sculpture that appears to be a mishmash of a rubber Tyrannosaurus rex head, a dress made out of flowing scarves, and a scruffy wig of black yarn—“are most likely from the shopkeeper’s imagination.”

  I laugh. “I’ll take any useful advice I can get, even if it’s coming from a strangely stylish dinosaur.”

  Akira gives me a little half smile—and I can’t help but notice there’s some kind of strain behind it. Come to think of it, his voice is a bit mechanical and he’s not peppering his tour guide commentary with his usual asides, jokes, and teasing grins. He seems … off, somehow.

  “Hey,” I say, tugging on his sleeve. “Are you okay? You seem a little …” I search for the right word, then finally point to a funny paper lantern creature hanging outside a ramen restaurant. It’s bright red and kind of an oval shape, with drawn-on eyes that look squeezed shut and pained and a big red tongue lolling out of its mouth. It basically looks like it’s having the worst day of its life.

  He lets out an amused snort. “Maybe not that bad,” he says, finally cracking a grin. He hesitates for a moment, studying me. “I have some worries,” he says slowly, drawing out each word. “About my ojisan.”

  I nod, encouraging him to continue.

  “The rent may be going up at the market again,” Akira says. “And we are not sure how much it’s going to be.”

  “Oh no,” I say, my brows drawing together. “Well, surely we can figure something out? Your ojisan’s mochi seems very popular. And he’s so passionate about it.”

  “That is part of my worry,” Akira says. “The mochi is … everything he has. Everything.”

  “No partner?” I say. “No children, no pets? Or hobbies, even?”

  “He has put it all into the stand,” Akira says, giving me a slight smile. “He was married once, long ago, to a woman he adored, but …” His smile fades abruptly. “She got very ill—with cancer. And passed away.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I say, my heart breaking for the vibrant, enthusiastic man who I witnessed taking such joy in mochi-pounding the day before.

  “I was very young,” Akira says. He moves closer to the lantern yokai with its outlandish tongue, studying it. A light breeze cracks through the warm spring air, ruffling his hair. I can’t help but wonder if it’s some sort of restless spirit, passing over him. “But I remember studying my secondhand medical texts, wondering if I could find a way to cure her. I remember wanting that more than anything in the whole world.”

  “That’s part of why you wanted to become a doctor,” I say softly—and it’s not a question. I just know. I step closer to him, brushing my fingertips against his to let him know I’m there.

  He turns and meets my eyes, giving me a soft, sad smile. “I cannot bear to see Ojisan lose another love in his life. I cannot bear to see him have … nothing.”

  “He has you.” I squeeze Akira’s hand.

  Akira turns back to study the demon-lantern and we just stand there for a moment, staring at the pained-looking creature. It’s one of our nice, crackly silences—but this time, it’s charged with something extra, a deeper level of understanding between us. It feels like we’re moving into uncharted territory and I’m not sure what to make of that.

  “I am sorry,” Akira finally says. “I do not mean to … talk about sad things. To take us off the path of your journey.”

  “We’re on whatever this journey is together,” I say. “You can talk about whatever sad things you want.”

  He turns away from the lantern-demon and smiles at me, then starts to continue down Yokai Street and motions for me to follow.

  “I think I would like to talk about something else now,” he says. He pauses, then meets my gaze, his eyes flashing with that intensity I love so much. “But, Kimi—thank you.” His voice is so sincere, so layered with deeper meaning, I swear my heart skips a beat.

  “So,” I say as we move forward. “Let’s see, what’s a good something else we can talk about? Did you come here when you were younger—you said the street has only embraced its, er, extreme yokai-ness for about fifteen years?”

  “Yes,” he says, smiling a little. “Ojisan used to take me here, actually. I have three brothers and two sisters—”

  “What?!” I exclaim, laughing. “How have we never talked about this before?”

  “We have been busy doing other things, Kimi from America,” he says, giving me a sly smile. “Things that do not involve talking.”

  “Mmmmmm,” I say, turning bright red. I’m happy to see him perk up, even if it means my face is currently on fire. “Let me guess: You’re the youngest?”

  “How did you know? Is it my natural charm?”

  “It’s your ability to get anyone’s attention no matter what the circumstances,” I counter. “Makes me think you need all the attention-getting tactics you can muster.”

  “Perhaps,” he says. “I often felt like I was getting lost in the shuffle. Ojisan took me under his wing a bit since he has no children. We are alike in many ways.”

  “I can see that,” I say, flashing back to their affectionate routine from the day before. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to have a bunch of siblings. I’m an only child.”

  “Because your parents got it so perfect the first time?” Akira says, cocking an eyebrow.

  “I think because I was pretty much all they could handle,” I say, rolling my eyes at him. “My dad’s restaurant was kind of like their second child, I guess. And then my mom’s graphic design business was their third. But it’s interesting …” I trail off, gnawing on my lower lip in consideration.

  A new yokai catches my eye, an orangey-red dragon with three eyes and a winsome expression. It has some kind of cookie clutched in one hand—I can’t tell if it’s supposed to be offering it to me or clutching it possessively. Either way, it’s cute and cool and striking. I love all the wonders lurking on this street, just waiting to be discovered.

  “What’s interesting?” Akira prompts.

  “I’ve never thought very much about how my mom’s an only child, too,” I muse. “And talking to my grandfather—he told me about how my obaasan was kind of on her own in that way as well. She had one brother, but he basically abandoned the family.” I crouch down so I can look at the little red dragon face-to-face. I tap the
cookie in his hand. He’s definitely clutching it possessively, I decide. It’s something about his eyes.

  Akira crouches down next to me. “And what do you think this means for you?”

  “It gives me a more complete picture of myself—or it’s starting to,” I say slowly, thinking it over. I replay the various conversations I’ve had with my grandparents over the past week—conversations that revealed more about my mother and her life here than I’d ever imagined. “I don’t think I realized how much I was missing, knowing next to nothing about one entire side of my family tree. Mom never wanted to talk about her parents. And I never pushed her to tell me—partly because I knew it would upset her, but also …” I trail off, staring into the dragon’s three-eyed gaze, as if this will somehow give me all the answers I need.

  “Also, what?” Akira prompts.

  “Hold on, I think I’m getting a cramp from crouching down,” I say. I stand, he follows suit, and I wave good-bye to the greedy little dragon as we continue our stroll down Yokai Street. “I think I didn’t ask my mother more about her family because it seemed so complicated, so unresolved, so … messy.”

  “But all history is messy, ne?” Akira says. “Especially when it comes to families.”

  “Oh, for sure,” I say. “And the weird thing is, somewhere deep inside, I already knew that. My other grandma—my dad’s mom—told me the entire history of her side of the family. She told me about Japanese American incarceration during World War II, how her parents and their friends had to leave all their things and their homes and their lives behind. How they were treated like criminals and outsiders in their own country. How they never wanted to talk about it after. How they always thought it might happen again.”

  I picture my grandmother in her red-and-blue-checked coat, the one she passed down to me, the one she wore even inside the house because she was always cold and didn’t want to “waste money” turning on the heat. I remember her regarding me very seriously as she sipped her tea and talked to me. She’d show me my great-grandmother’s “citizen’s indefinite leave” card and note that Great-Grandma is smiling in the picture because she was forced to.