29. 菖蒲華: "The Iris Blooms"

(BGM: "The Woman And The Stone" by Andreas Vollenveider)

 Shichijuni-kou (72 Seasons) Calendar Listing 
 仲夏, Chuuka: "Mid-summer"
Season No. 10: 夏至, Geshi: 
"Summer Solstice" 

Iris with petals slightly curled up at Kikkou Park (吉香公園), Iwakuni, Yamaguchi.

Climate No. 29: 菖蒲華
Ayame Hana Saku
"The Iris Blooms"
(June 26 -June 30) 

The most colorful iris I've ever seen, gracing Kintaikyo Bridge (錦帯橋) in Iwakuni, Yamaguchi.

 "Rabbit ear iris
   Resembles and
    Resembles
      Water's reflection."   
              -Matsuo Basho

Various expressions of the beauty of iris in paint and silk (Nagahama, Shiga).

I can only appreciate the rich, varied cornucopia of species on this planet. I don't claim to be an expert on anything, especially in areas that are particularly confusing. Take for instance, telling the difference between an ayame, shobu and hana-shobu -all words that translate into English simply as "iris."

I'm not about to touch this debate with a ten-foot pole. Instead of pretending to know something I don't, I'm just going to throw my hands up in the air, put aside my desire to be right, leave things to this website and marvel in the regal wizardry of this plant's royal design.

Diabolic or angelic, depending on how you look at it (Iwakuni, Yamaguchi).

Darn gorgeous, aren't they? They make walking in the rain even more of a sensual pleasure! Wild iris are native to both Japan and Alaska. While Alaskans will have to wait another month to enjoy their iris blossoms, in Japan, late June is the best time to spot these beauties in marshes, swamps and alongside rice paddies, so refreshingly elegant in the misty tsuyu rains.

Iris looking lovely in early summer typhoon showers (Toride, Ibaraki).

A decent Japanese garden will always have some sort of muddy, low-lying bed with space for iris to bloom and a dry platform for viewing. Chirping frogs, fire newts, buzzing dragonflies and delicate damselflies make their homes here, as well as mosquitoes. It's best to come to iris gardens armed with an umbrella and already sprayed down with bug repellant.

Iris and Hydrangea (Kikkou Park, Iwakuni)

Flavor Of The Season: 枇杷, Biwa, Loquat

A loquat served with a school lunch. Lucky kids!

A relative of mine who lives in the States has a loquat tree planted next to her house. I visited her once when the tree was loaded with these small, pert little fruits. I asked her if she enjoyed them along with the oranges she picked every morning from her backyard. She surprised me when she said flatly that she just let them drop for the birds and bees, never knowing how to eat them. Were she able to access the Internet in those days, she might have been able to better appreciate this beautiful, health-giving food.

Biwa bushes with little ripening bags tied around the fruit (Akitsu, Higashi Hiroshima).

I got my first taste of loquat in a small gelatin cup I bought for a hundred yen at a commonplace Japanese convenience store. The gelatin was pure sucrose but the fruit was pleasantly bland -like a persimmon with slight notes of pear and apple. For people like me who don't like their sweets too sweet, the cleansing, slightly-astringent biwa is a perfect choice. Eating them is simple: just peel off the thin outer skin and enjoy the pear-like flesh. They take the edge off a heavy, oily meal in a flash.

Tree Of The Season: 合歓木, Nemunoki, Persian Silk Tree (Mimosa) 

Fabulous "fan-fare" (haw haw, get it?) at a park in Hiroshima Prefecture.

I can't help but be reminded of artists' fan brushes dipped in pink paint when I see the playful, frivolous blossoms of this tree of many names. In India it is called, appropriately, "rain tree" for the way it blooms during the monsoon season. In Japan, this tree is called "nemunoki" which means "sleeping tree." But why "sleeping tree?"

The person who named this plant was obviously very aware of the plant's behavior. On dark, cloudy days and at night, the leaves of the nemunoki actually fold inward, as if the tree were going to sleep! Much like the leaves of its cousin, the sensitivity plant, fold up when tickled, the leaves of the nemunoki slowly close and hang limp in low-light situations.

I am always astounded by the sheer intelligence of the lifeforms we share this amazing world with. The more I look, the more wonderment there is to experience! Is there no end to the awesomeness of nature?


Copyright 2014 Genkilee, Gen. All rights reserved. No part of this blog (written or photo content) may be reproduced or reprinted without the expressed permission of the author.

28. 乃東枯: "The Self-heal Withers"

(BGM: "Kawa No Nagare No Youni" by Misora Hibari)

 Shichijuni-kou (72 Seasons) Calendar Listing
 仲夏, Chuuka: "Mid-summer"
Season No. 10: 夏至, Geshi: 
"Summer Solstice" 

The longest day of the year has come. The sun might be at its highest point in the noontime sky, but we can't see it for the mist and rain. The moisture hanging all around us like a gauze net is offset by the sweet, woodsy dryness of burning incense and mosquito coils. It's the perfect time to go temple-hopping; the mist adds a mental coolness that accentuates the peaceful ambiance of these Buddhist retreats.

Climate No. 28: 乃東枯
Natsukarekusa Karuru
"The Self-heal Withers"
(June 21 -June 25) 

Self-heal (Prunella vulgaris subsp. asiatica) on its way out (Otake, Hiroshima).

Mentioned twice in the Shichijuni-kou calendar, the self-heal plant (Prunella vulgaris) has been used for centuries by indiginous cultures worldwide as an anti-inflammatory and a source of food. While driving down a dangerous one-lane mountain trail smack on the border between Yamaguchi and Hiroshima prefectures, I noticed this patch of self-heal and couldn't believe the timing. Had I known at the time it was edible as a salad green, I would've plucked a few to munch on the road. But it would have been bitter and unpalatable, for self-heal tastes best in spring. Ah, maybe next year. ;-)

Yet as I ponder this reminder of inevitable death and withering in a season of vibrancy and life, I am reminded of my own mortality. No matter what the season, some things must fade. People go away. Situations change. I can appreciate the dousing of freezing-cold reality in this hot season of flaring passions and creation. Many organisms are mating all around me (like butterflies and stinkbugs), while others are falling back into eternity, to be reborn as living energy for still more life that feeds on it. It's hard to feel remorse when looking at life as a neverending cycle.

I have a feeling that the self-heal plant will be aptly named to me from now on because of this revelation. ;-) Nature is quite the teacher, isn't it?

Event Of The Season: 鵜飼, Ukai, Cormorant Fishing

A painting celebrating the ukai tradition in Uji, Kyoto.

"Exciting to see
   But soon after
    Comes sadness, 
      The cormorant boats."   
              -Matsuo Basho

Two dolls greet customers-to-be at an ukai kiosk in Arashiyama, Kyoto.

The Hubby and I always seem lucky in stumbling upon these cormorant fishing towns during our travels. We never plan on going to places where this occurs, but already, without following an itinerary, we've been to four of the thirteen "ukai capitals" of Japan -all completely by chance.

Hard work requires comfortable shoes (Arashiyama, Kyoto).

Cormorant fishing (Jpn: ukai 鵜飼) involves an expert ukai fisherman wearing a water reed apron (traditional raingear), who catches fish using pelagic cormorants (Jpn: u 鵜 pronounced /ooh/) on tethers. The boat is navigated out to the middle of the river where sweetfish (Jpn: ayu 鮎) tend to gather. By the light of a torch basket held near the bow of the boat, the cormorants catch fish in their beaks, are immediately hoisted up into the boat by the tether around their neck and forced to cough up the booty. These birds are taken from the wild and trained in this art, registered and carefully looked after, according to this website.

A poster advertising ukai under the Kintaikyo Bridge in Iwakuni, Yamaguchi.

The average tour costs from 1500 yen on up. From what we've seen on the shore, tourists file into a tatami-floored boat where they're seranaded with recordings of Meiji-era koto music and are played a multilingual description of the event about to take place. (Higher-end establishments provide a live description by a travel guide or an emcee).

A royal send-off (Arashiyama, Kyoto).

After about twenty minutes of waiting, or when all preparations have been made and the sky is dark enough, the boats are rowed out into the middle of the river and lined up while the fishermen, in separate boats, situate themselves into position. There, the fishermen set their torches alight and release the lanky, hungry cormorants from their basket cages and sit them along the ledge of the boat. On cue, the birds jump into the water and chaotically flap and dip in a jumbled frenzy, fishing as they sail back and forth in full view of the tourist boats. 

Ukai fishing in Arashiyama, Kyoto.

Realizing that people pay a pretty penny to see ukai up close, we always feel thankful when we're lucky enough to catch a free glimpse of this rare cultural spectacle. But much like Basho stated in his poem, once the boats are in sight, we feel a little somber; the idea of birds being choked and forbidden to eat their catch is a little hard for us to swallow, let alone the birds.

Still, if I come across ukai again in my travels, I just might fork out the dough to see the show up close. Some hotels and tourist establishments offer dinner cruises where guests can eat their freshly-caught fish. Even though ayu is my absolute favorite fish on the planet, I'm not sure I could swallow it, knowing it spent time in another creature's body. Even though the Emperor, himself, eats cormorant-caught sweetfish several times a year, I'd still feel guilty and be tempted to chuck it back to the bird who caught it. (But that's just moi).

Taste Of The Season: 鮎, Ayu, Sweetfish

Fresh-caught sweetfish grilled over hot coals for the Amano River Firefly Festival (Maibara, Shiga)

In Japan, there are many flavors that easily conjure up memories of summer: fuzzy peaches dripping with honey-sweet nectar, tomatoes oozing with tart, seedy goodness and sherbet-like watermelon just to name a few.

But for me, it's this small, unpretentious little river fish, silvery with yellow fins and full of white flaky goodness. Ayu (Plecoglossus altivelis) is just oily enough to go down easy, yet dry enough to make you feel like you're enjoying something healthy. When properly cooked, you can eat the entire fish, from below the gills to the tail. The bones in the lower body, when fried, become as brittle and crispy as potato chips (and are just as delicious, if not moreso).

Scrumptious sweetfish sits atop a bed of fresh-cut soba noodles (Awa, Tokushima)

I've had ayu simmered, boiled, stewed, even served sashimi-style. Each method of preparation helped me enjoy this incredibly versatile relative of the smelt family in a new, fresh light.

But hands-down, my favorite way of savoring this aquatic delicacy is shio-yaki style: skewered, rubbed with salt and grilled over hot coals to brown, bubbly perfection. This is perhaps the most popular way to eat ayu in Japan (and rightfully so), often featured in yatai food stalls at festivals, truck stops and riverside campgrounds all around the country.

A sweetfish vendor on Castle Road in Hikone, Shiga.

Come to me, my sweetfish!

Pure, unadulterated, crispy YUM!

Copyright 2014 Genkilee, Gen. All rights reserved. No part of this blog (written or photo content) may be reproduced or reprinted without the expressed permission of the author.

27. 梅子黄: "Plums Turn Golden"

(BGM: "Chalu Chalu Chalu" from the Sri Ramadasu STK)

Ume plums ripening in the Yamagata rains.

 Shichijuni-kou (72 Seasons) Calendar Listing
 仲夏, Chuuka: "Mid-summer"
Season No. 9: 芒種, Boushu: 
"Grain In Ear"

Rice plants taking hold in Tamari, Hiroshima.

Climate No. 27: 梅子黄 
Ume No Mi Kibamu
"Plums Turn Golden"
(June 16 -June 20) 

Golden plums nearly falling off the branches in Iwakuni, Yamaguchi.

We've seen how the white, demure blossoms of ume plum trees (Prunus mume) fill the early spring air with their sweet, uplifting fragrance. The greening of the hillsides urges little emerald orbs to swell up from where blossoms once graced the boughs. With the onset of the rainy season, the slightly fuzzy apricot-sized ume fruits drop and splat onto the ground, providing food for wasps, butterflies and other insects.

Ume plums might seem deliciously tempting just as they are. But to bite into one would be folly; the ume plum is poisonous to humans and must be pickled in a salt brine (梅干し umeboshi), packed with sugar to make ume juice or preserved in alcohol (梅酒 umeshu) to be removed of its toxins. Fortunately, Japanese cuisine provides many opportunities to savor the succulent sourness of ume plums.

Umeboshi

My host mother's homemade umeboshi (Fukutsu, Fukuoka).

Pickled plums (umeboshi) come in two major types: dried and moist. Dried umeboshi packed in salt tend to be painfully tart to the average tongue yet eaten casually by the Japanese like candy. (They're actually found in the candy aisle at the supermarket!) They are dreadfully salty and quite the acquired taste. Folks with hypertension or high blood pressure would do well to avoid them. 

Soggy, mushy umeboshi (found refrigerated in the tsukemono section of any supermarket) are usually sweeter than their dried counterpart, with more fruit flavor and less shock value. They generally make their way into meals as a side condiment, adding a spark of contrast to an otherwise bland bowl of rice or as a topping for noodles. For many people, just a couple umeboshi, a humble bowl of rice and a small serving of miso soup constitutes an entire breakfast. In Japan, the taste of umeboshi seems to change with each household in much the same way that no two kimchees are alike in neighboring Korea. Pickling techniques, equipment, ingredients and recipes are often heavily-guarded family secrets, passed on from generation to generation.

Umeboshi  have their rightful place in Japanese traditional medicine, still popular with the elderly in tonics and tisanes as a remedy for heat exhaustion and as a way to shorten the lifespan of colds. Apparently, all one needs to do to boost their immune system is to drop the flesh of a moist umeboshi into a teacup and cover with boiling water, allowing it to steep for several minutes. Drinking two cups a day of this concoction for several months is said to reduce profuse sweating, increase circulation, ease poor digestion, even aid weight loss (proof pending, of course).

Umeshu

Homemade umeshu plum wine (Ushiku, Ibaraki).

This time of year, the average Japanese supermarket sports a few tables in the produce section loaded with pickling jars and thermoses especially designed for the making of homemade umeshu and non-alcoholic ume juice. (The ripe fruit is best preserved while in season). Both of these soothing concoctions can be enjoyed year-round on the rocks for a refreshing summer drink or blended with boiling water as a warming winter toddy. (I've also discovered that both umeshu and ume juice blend perfectly with orange juice!) Not limited to straight consumption, ume beverages also add a sweet, mellow tang to sauces and marinades. Not a bad repertoire for a poisonous fruit!

 Taste Of The Season: メロン, Meron, Melon

"Melon, 
   In morning dew
    Mud-fresh."   -Matsuo Basho

Assorted melons and other fruit at Ameyayokocho Market in Ueno, Tokyo.

The first drink I ever had in Japan was a musk melon cream soda float at Narita Int'l Airport. It was a muggy, nerve-wracking September day and nothing could've cooled me down more effectively short of tying myself to the plane tail and trying to catch the breezes that way! Neon green and sickly sweet, the soda quickly doused the raging furnace under my skin. I was never a melon fan until I experienced that flavor in such a fizzy, creamy context.

Free blood-red watermelon plucked fresh from the fields of Ohmi Hachiman, Shiga.

Japan's nutrient-dense volcanic soil and humid summer climate ensure the perfect conditions for growing melons of all sorts, from honeydew and canteloupe to musk and watermelon.

My Hokkaido host father finishing off a slice of world-famous Yubari melon.

Over recent decades, agricultural scientists and farmers have genetically engineered various species of these fleshy cucurbits to create strange shapes, colors and textures as unique selling points -some of their inventions costing upwards of hundreds of dollars.

An honest-to-goodness Densuke watermelon, costing over 300$ USD (Otaru, Hokkaido).

We don't know anyone who would willingly pay that kind of price for a piece of impermanent fruit. And certainly, nobody we know would admit it if they did. (I mean, what if the thing was over-ripe? Find out how not to make that mistake here). We do, however, seem to have great luck living near people who have more melons in their garden than they can give away. We often get them for free! Back in Shiga, I even got a whole one for my birthday!

A health-conscious alternative to birthday cake! (Hikone, Shiga)

Flower Of The Season: 梅雨草, Tsuyukusa, Spiderplant

(Tradescantia)

Spiderplant blooms in a farmer's front yard (Tone, Ibaraki).

The blossoms of the spiderplant always remind me of the worms from the planet Dune. But I still think their peculiar triangular ultraviolet blossoms make them the perfect symbol of the rainy season in Japan -not for looks, but for their behavior: These flowers actually open on rainy and cloudy days! How cool is that?

Spiderplant and bumble bee (Hiroshima).

Copyright 2014 Genkilee, Gen. All rights reserved. No part of this blog (written or photo content) may be reproduced or reprinted without the expressed permission of the author.

26. 腐草為蛍: "Rotten Grass Becomes Fireflies"

(BGM: "Hotaru" by Matsubara Nobue)

Shichijuni-kou (72 Seasons) Calendar Listing
 仲夏, Chuuka: "Mid-summer"
Season No. 9: 芒種, Boushu: 
"Grain In Ear" 

The rice paddies are filled with water and streaked with seedlings. Taue (田植え rice planting) in southern Japan is about half completed. A thick mist hangs over the land, now, hiding the sun and keeping the evenings cool. The conditions are perfect for the most mystifying of Japan's insects to enjoy their time in the limelight.

Climate No. 26: 腐草為蛍
Kusaretarukusa Hotaru To Naru
"Rotten Grass Becomes Fireflies"
(June 10 -June 15) 

The light trails of 2 fireflies flying through the air and landing on my arm.

The Japanese names for every season of the Shichijuni-kou calendar have made sense so far. Yet here we are at a title that sounds rather odd. Rotten grass becoming fireflies? Huh?

Section of a glass art panel depicting fireflies (Toho Glass-no-Sato Park, Hiroshima).

The expression comes from the old Japanese proverb: "fusou hotaru to naru," (腐草蛍と為る) which can be translated to mean "the impossible happens."
We children of the Information Age tend to take our knowledge of the natural world for granted. We know that an insect makes these lights and that contractions in the firefly's abdomen create the proper mixing of chemicals neeeded to make her butt glow (his butt in the case of American fireflies, explained here).

A retired firefly in the final hours of its luminescent life. (Nagahama, Shiga)

But what about the wonderment? Surely, twinkling green lights slowly rising up from river grass and suddenly streaking through the air like electricity must easily seem like an impossibility if one never saw such phenomena before. The expression "rotten grasses become fireflies" is good food for thought that keeps me humble. I don't need to know everything. Sometimes, knowing too much can be a killjoy for not only myself, but for others around me.

I had an experience several years ago that helped me learn how to turn off my over-analytical mind and just enjoy not knowing things for a change:

My husband had never seen fireflies before moving to Japan. One night, while walking down the Seri River in Hikone, Shiga, I noticed an ethereal flash of bioluminescence over the water and recognized it as a firefly (I'd chased them once in the US Mid-West area). Immediately, I tried to get my husband's eyes to lock onto it in the darkness. At first he thought I'd seen a snake and was already tensing up in defense mode. But the bug flashed again and he was hypnotized! "What is that?" he asked.

The farther we walked on towards Sainenji Temple, the more fireflies came into view. They glowed like strings of Christmas LED lights in the camellia bushes and up in the lower cherry trees that drooped gracefully over the rushing river below. While my husband lost himself in a daze, rotating slowly like a planet with stars moving all around him, I sneaked off in to the darkness, gently scooped up a firefly from a nearby bush, and carefully carried it to him.

"Open your hand," I whispered. As I uncupped my hands, the glow from the insect radiated outward, spreading over my fingers like the light inside an old candle. I noticed a familiar childlike fascination flickering over my husband's face, settling into a smile of delight. Instead of telling him all the juicy science behind what he was seeing, I decided to just keep quiet and let him experience the moment for himself, in his own way.

The firefly was in no state of panic. It simply meandered curiously from my hands to my husband's, checking out the curves and texture of his skin, glow pulsing and diminishing. I was worried that my husband, normally an insect-hater, would freak out and try to fling the creature off his hand. Instead, he held it tenderly, with one hand under the other should the firefly accidentally lose its footing and fall. Not wanting her to fly away, he tried to shield her whenever her gossamer wings peeked out from underneath their sleek, black shields. (We always want a beautiful moment to last).

In my quest to learn about the natural world, I now make it a point to leave some room for the unknown. The fascination and wonder of it all makes it worthwhile.

Curious firefly checking out her first human hand (Shiga Prefecture).

"Watching fireflies
   The boatman is drunk
     And we worry."   -Matsuo Basho 

Fireflies (Jpn: 蛍 hotaru) in Japan are a bit picky; they don't live just anywhere. They prefer areas with low light pollution, fresh clean water with lots of long, wispy grasses and silty banks writhing with mud snails for food, among other requirements. This short list alone pretty much guarantees that you won't find them flying around the concrete-lined creeks of downtown Tokyo or Nagoya (unless someone released them from a nearby firefly raising operation). But you can check here for a list of locations (in Japanese) where you can spot fireflies. The later in the summer you wait, the further north you'll have to journey in order to see them.

The sight of fireflies keeps one young, I'm certain of it. 

Flower Of The Season: 蛍袋, Hotarubukuro, Spotted Bellflower  
(Campanula punctata)

Spotted bellflower hugging a garden stone wall in Moriya, Ibaraki.

These flowers grow in tall bundles along hillsides and rocky outcrops, right in time with the fireflies hatching. In fact, the Japanese name hotarubukuro means "bag with fireflies inside."

A richly-colored purple variety of spotted bellflower atop Mt. Noro in Kure, Hiroshima.

Again this sounds strange, but a teacher friend once told me that in olden days, people would catch fireflies, tie up one inside each blossom of the stalk and carry their new fireless lanterns home with them. (Not very humane, but creative, I'll give them that). 

Copyright 2014 Genkilee, Gen. All rights reserved. No part of this blog (written or photo content) may be reproduced or reprinted without the expressed permission of the author.

25. 蟷螂生: "Praying Mantis Hatch"

(BGM: "Wonder" by Natalie Merchant)

Shichijuni-kou (72 Seasons) Calendar Listing
 仲夏, Chuuka: "Mid-summer"
Season No. 9: 芒種, Boushu: 
"Grain In Ear" 

The rains have brought that extra push that cereal grains like barley and wheat need to become full and ripe. Providing everything went right, the grain is now "in the ear" of each plant and ready for harvest! Since the harvest is the busiest time of the year for farmers, festivals are fewer on purpose to provide enough time to get the crops in without distraction. The Chinese name for this season, mangzhong simultaneously means both "grain in ear" and "busy."

Climate No. 25: 蟷螂生
Kamakiri Shouzu
"Praying Mantis Hatch"
(June 5 -June 9) 

A fearless (and very pregnant) female mantis confusing me with a tree (Tone, Ibaraki).

Lucky Surprises! 

I'm not sure whether or not this is true, but I once heard somewhere that if you see a praying mantis, you'll have good luck for the day. I don't like to claim that I'm superstitious. But in my life, I have been noticing a pattern of running into these intelligent insects with positive events soon following.

My first ever encounter with a praying mantis in Japan was simply awesome. Since my homeland Alaska is way too cold for these elegant hunters, they'd always been on my bucket list of things to see. When I heard that they existed everywhere on Honshu, I was no doubt on the lookout.

One evening on my way home after a very good day at work, I found a startling green and very large praying mantis crossing the road. Strangely, in the midst of my elation, I suddenly had the unrelated thought of how nice it would be if could meet a certain new friend whom I hadn't seen all day. Five minutes later, I step onto the train of our local Joban Line. Lo and behold, right there on the seat in front of me sat my friend! That encounter made a believer out of both of us, and a new musical partnership was borne of that evening's karaoke party! Double-lucky!

Cups full of bugs is becoming a recurring theme, here, I'm noticing... :-/

One misty June evening, a teacher friend presented me with a present: a cup full of praying mantises! How amazingly random! Apparently he remembered my story about my good luck encounter and he felt the need to increase my luck. "Just scatter them around your garden and they'll be with you all year round," he said.

Back at my apartment, I had the selfish fantasy of playing with one of the babies before putting them outside. But I underestimated their speed and immediately after lifting the lid only a fraction of an inch, one raced out of the cup, down my hand and leaped onto the floor. It headed straight for my refrigerator, lost in the shadows of my kitchen! All attempts to retrieve it were futile. I had to just accept it as a loss.

Less than a month later, I'm cleaning my kitchen curtains to reveal, what's this? Could it truly be?

I held my hand up to the dainty beady-eyed baby and it curiously crawled on, as if it knew me! Still small, yet filled out, it looked very healthy and fulfilled as it sat there on my fingers, daintily cleaning its feet and antennae with long, spindly legs.

He kept looking at me longingly with those charming black pinheads for eyes, as if glad I found him! It was love at second sight! After a fun-filled photo session with the trusting little guy (I'm just assuming it's a male), I reluctantly brought him outside to rest in my tomato plant. This time, he didn't put up a fight, and quickly set to work hunting down a black aphid on a nearby leaf. I continued to watch him like a nervous parent until I was assured of his safety. And then I went back to my room, closed the door behind me, and felt blessed for no reason at all.

"If you love someone, set them free."  -Sting

Taste Of The Season: 空豆, Sora Mame, Sky Bean

"Sky Beans" (Vicia faba)

Also known as "broadbean," and "fava bean," sora mame gets its name from the way the seed pods grow up "towards the sky." Their slightly fuzzy deep green seed pods can grow up to five inches long, with each case housing about three beans shaped like ancient fertility symbols.

A very kind friend dropped off a bagful and I was quick to make good use of them. They were very easy to shuck: just a little bit of pressure on their spines with my thumbnail and they opened up effortlessly and uniformly, revealing their chubby-cheeked babies inside. With a gentle swipe of my thumb, I freed each bean from its casing, revealing the jet-black line across its forehead. (You can find out how the soramame got its black line here, in the second segment of this animated film).

Once shucked, I tossed them in a bowl of cold water (to loosen any thin membranes still attached to the beans) and rinsed them clean. Since they have similar flavor and texture to kidney beans, they can be cooked in much the same fashion. But I simply boiled them in salted water until soft, strained and let them cool before adding a dash of bamboo salt for flavor. Rich in magnesium and other minerals, soramame are the perfect roadsnack!

Flower Of The Season: 橘, Tachibana, (Mikan) Orange Blossom 

A hidden orchard of mikan orange trees in bloom (Okamura Island, Ehime Prefecture).

"Temple bells die out 
   The fragrant blossoms remain
     A perfect evening!"   -Matsuo Basho 

Fragrant mikan blossoms lining a stairwell from the shore of Lake Biwa (Mizugahama Cafe, Ohmi Hachiman, Shiga Prefecture). 

One of the inarguable pleasures of living in Japan is savoring the ever-changing melange of scents and aromas throughout the seasons. Early June could very well be sweetest-smelling time of the year, when the forests and mountainsides release perfumes that inspire and soothe the senses in combinations that would test the skills of any top-rank perfumer.

The magic time seems to be around five in the evening, when the sudden shift from warm to cool helps the trees like cedar, cypress and acacia release their fragrant oils into the air.

Among the more noticeable of these are the orange blossoms. In regions like coastal Kanagawa and all around the Seto Inland Sea their bright, uplifting fragrance spreads over the hills and lower mountains where orange trees cling to steep, rocky cliffs. Here, aromatherapy can easily be had for a song: simply drive around the orchards with the windows down and suck up into your lungs as much neroli as you can inhale! 

The best things in life are truly free!

Copyright 2014 Genkilee, Gen. All rights reserved. No part of this blog (written or photo content) may be reproduced or reprinted without the expressed permission of the author.

24. 麦秋至: "Barley Matures"

(BGM: "Fields Of Gold" by Sting)

Shichijuni-kou (72 Seasons) Calendar Listing
 初夏 Shoka: "Early Summer"
Season No. 8: 小満, Shouman: 
"Grain Full" 

Shouman: the time of year when farmers can hope to see kernals forming in the "ears" of cereal crops such as wheat and barley. This sign allows them to heave a little sigh of relief, hence the term "shou-man," or "small satisfaction."

Climate No. 24: 麦秋至
Mugi Notoki Itaru
"Barley Matures"
(May 31 -June 4) 

It seems like just weeks ago when the landscape changed from lifeless brown and gray to the pulsating, energizing freshness of new green. But the sudden sight of autumnal gold and orange amidst watery fields of rice seedlings can be an unexpected shock. (Weren't we in summer a moment ago?)

Field of Ripened Barley in June Rains (Hikone, Shiga)

One afternoon while taking our daily stroll around the rice paddies of eastern Shiga, we were lucky to have a conversation with a friendly-faced and slightly bilingual farmer about Japan's grain-growing industries. He told us that barley (Jpn: mugi 麦) was a subsidised crop that he grew on occasion to condition the soil of his rice paddies. (He said he also grew it for cattle feed, since barley makes Ohmi beef especially tasty).

Barley ready for harvest (Yasu, Shiga)

In recent decades, despite its historical importance as a staple food in Japan, barley production has stalled and today the country imports more of the grain than it grows. What is grown is used primarily for feed and beverages, including mugicha (麦茶, barley tea), shochu (焼酎, a distilled alcoholic beverage) and the national favorite: beer -something that tastes just perfect on a hot summer night!

It was fun to imagine what that particular field of barley was destined to become. We asked but the farmer wouldn't tell us. Sometimes, it's good to be left hanging. It teaches patience. He did practice his English with me a little bit, and his desire to communicate was somehow enough. I don't need to know everything.

Bird Of The Season: イソヒヨドリ, Isohiyodori, Blue Rock Thrush

Male Blue Rock Thrush (Source: Wikipedia, a Public Domain Image)

Down here in the Chugoku region, there's a sweet little bird with an incredibly big voice. Strikingly similar to a robin in size, coloring and vocal ability, the blue rock thrush (Monticola solitarius) sits on rooftops, rocky outcrops and seawalls, crooning its soulful melody at dawn, dusk and between the rains. Its song is teasing, lilting and slightly feminine. Whenever I hear one belting out a ditty on my neighbor's old TV antenna, I can't help but stop what I'm doing, pull up a chair and just relish the aural experience.

Male blue rock thrushes are particularly loud this time of the year, as if the rains are putting the pressure on them to hurry up with finding a partner -and competition's fierce. I always see them standing by themselves, spaced yards apart from one another, chirping lonesome and friendless on the same stretch of seawall. Perhaps their loner reputation explains their name solitarius. Despite their tendency towards self-isolation, I'm always rooting for them; they're much too charming to lose out on the race to procreate. For now, their numbers aren't in any danger of extinction. May this continue to be the case for generations to come.

Flower Of The Season: 葵, Aoi, Hollyhock 

A natural hollyhock "fence" edges a parking lot in Miyoshi, Hiroshima.

"All day in gray rain
   The hollyhocks follow
     The sun's invisible road."    -Matsuo Basho 

Red giant complete with starburst in the center (Sera, Hiroshima).

Used in family crests and seals as a symbol of the Tokugawa Shogunate, and heralded today in Kyoto's Aoi Matsuri (Hollyhock Festival) this overloaded physical impossibility of a flower is a symbol of power and strength. Though some might disagree, more than hydrangeas, the hollyhock (Alcea rocacea) is the quintessential sundial (or clock, if you will) of the rainy season.

Hollyhocks bolt up quicker than lightning right after the last yaezakura cherry trees have finished blooming. By the time the rainy season begins, the flowers have already bloomed half-way up their towering 5-foot stalks. When the rains subside and the sultry, unforgiving heat of late summer kicks in, the blossoms are already on their way out, dropping off limp and spent like deflated balloons released of their air.

As Basho seemed to imply in his haiku, hollyhocks look as if they just don't give a darn about the rain, or anything else for that matter. Running on their own time, they keep right on track and stay focused on a sun they can't see -a perfect example of concentration and dilligence. And of course, this means yet another lesson for me: if I believe that I'm doing all I can in this moment, keeping my eyes locked on my goal (but making definite action in the present towards that goal), good things will come of it, surely.

 Hollyhock being tickled by an inch-long bumble bee (Miyoshi, Hiroshima)

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