A thousand gifts – by Maki Morita
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this story about food starts in a gym, but I’m talking free-to-air TV not protein bars — running on a treadmill to the white noise of Border Security could be the crème de la crème of suburban pastimes — did you know quarantine law makes good primetime drama? — we pant we glance we witness a family unravel souvenirs with which to adorn their kitchen — this is a tune to hum along to and I take another sip of water
inside the suitcases in question: packets of childhood snacks, cylinders of tea sealed tight with aromas, fermented condiments to balance out a dish, that one brand of dried meat you could comb through these suburbs to dust off if you’re lucky
a stern lady pokes her nose in these prized fragments — she is an inspector, a guardian of The Ecosystem — parts of which were inserted themselves, as unwelcome strangers — so here we are in a place within a place within a place and she delivers the verdict — this is not allowed and this is most definitely not allowed and it is punishable — their heads sag and their collectibles are left behind to spoil
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there are goods considered too sticky too slippery too smelly too strange — like iriko, whose shrivelled fins lay placid in a body of water on our stove — their salty skeletons lent depth to my mother’s miso soup
there’s nothing worse than a shallow replication, and there’s a nostalgia to ‘authenticity’ — so Mum always ensured a healthy stash of iriko passed border control, as necessities to remould and reproduce memories of taste — they were headless by rule, and as a child I thought for dignity — saving them from remaining witness to their fate — but it’s because beheaded anchovies float in a loophole while whole anchovies are banished, for reasons still unknown to me
iriko is an ingredient to shrug at, but with distance it multiplies in worth — when re-potted they seed from grey to a weighted silver — I now know my mother was an investor, stuffing her pockets with the banal, as she knew that with time they would rub shiny
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my ojiisan had a love affair with St Dalfour blueberry jam — an affair known to his late wife — maybe you’ve seen it, it’s a tall jar of glistening purple but it might as well be pure gold — packaged in swirly letters to look oh so French and you can buy it at your local Coles
every visit to the motherland, we transported a supermarket shelf cleared of St Dalfour blueberry jam — dutifully nestled in cotton t-shirts and socks, not a single wedge of air wasted — for it was considered important, nay, crucial, that Ojiisan received his annual stockpile of St Dalfour blueberry jam all the way from Australia — and no, no other jam would quite cut it
for Ojiisan a Western breakfast was considered a tasteful one — he first laid soft pillows of shokupan then a fine sheet of butter and lashings of the stuff, then proceeded to savour it while gazing out the window — perhaps imagining he was looking out onto a lavender field in Provence, not a concrete corner of Tokyo
St Dalfour blueberry jam was a gift, St Dalfour blueberry jam was a lifestyle, St Dalfour blueberry jam was a delicacy, St Dalfour blueberry jam was a ritual, and no this piece is not sponsored by St Dalfour blueberry jam
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an osenbei is technically a ‘rice cracker’, but it’s not quite right to simply describe it as a ‘cracker’ made from ‘rice’
so, okay, let me start again — an osenbei is an osenbei, and there is no English word that quite captures its singular identity
every few months we tore into Obaachan’s care package, filled with puffed moons of rice rolled in plum powder or encased in a sheet of seaweed, which were encased again in a sheet of plastic — for in Japan real treats are individually wrapped and unveiled with an air of suspense
an osenbei often arrives at a leisurely pace — it’s not the beginning of things, but the in-between thing or post-dinner thing, when time is winding down and you have a minute to spare — the dash or the full stop, best enjoyed with a cup of steaming green tea — at Obaachan’s house, when dinner isn’t quite ready, she’ll ask you ‘Have you eaten yet?’ — and, whatever the answer, your hands will soon be stuffed with osenbei
an osenbei was a risky recess reveal — after all, my friends didn’t have a subscription for internationally mailed rice crackers — but they’re not ‘rice crackers’ remember, they are osenbei and that’s different — though my friends couldn’t care less so it was my own little secret
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If what Marcel Mauss says is true, a gift is never just a gift — they carry relationships and historical weight, and always come with an obligation
perhaps the perishables we lug back in suitcases are an obligation to remember, a promise to keep with ourselves — and so too is their exchange, swapping hands as totems — or as trophies for toiling someplace other
a circuit forever replete, with a thousand gifts and counting ▼
Image: Photo Lemon
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