Alongside beautiful shimeji mushrooms and wild watercress collected just moments ago I layer slices of inoshishi, wild boar hunted by a family friend.

It’s a dish inspired by Yoshiko Iwai, an earnest and dedicated tempura chef who is also a family friend, a dish I ate at his arresting cypress counter in Ginza that perfectly illustrates this time of year.

It was many years ago, now, that I first fell in love with a handsome Spanish radish at the local market. It had a calloused coal-colored rind and smooth snow-white flesh. I was immediately smitten.

There are as many variations as there are people making yubeshi, which may not actually be so many these days. Some are on the sweeter side, a natural confection, while others are on the spicy or savory side.

When I landed in Japan it’s only natural that I latched on to Kuniko’s cooking as a route towards belonging both to the family and culture I had joined, a culture rife with references to something larger and more meaningful than the individual self.

Perhaps persimmon is the only tree that looks better when its leaves have fallen. The fruits are revealed and the tree comes alive. They look downright bejeweled.

 I felt a certain poetry as I watched her hands, rough with age, pluck the delicate florets from the head. Her movements in the kitchen always showed respect and consideration for each ingredient.

My love of autumn quells the sorrow of summer passing. In the pink glow of a lean morning the raspy coo of doves opens the day, while the pulse of cicadas brings it to a close, urging us into the the gloaming.

Kuniko is sparse with her praise but she’ll often praise my dashi which, after all, I learned to make from her. The kombu flavor whispers more than shouts. Jouhin, she’ll say, calling it elegant.

I dry it in the sun for a day or two and grind it up to make a shiso salt called yukari. It’s a fresh alternative, with tart undertones, that adds a summery salinity to summer vegetables, picnic onigiri, cocktail rims, and much more.

I sliced up a few biwa to sauté with gobo (burdock root). They fruits stand up well to cooking, maintaining their color, shape,  and sweetness and make for a prefect sweet, creamy partner to the nutty crunch of burdock root.

I crave the physical act of cooking, of working with my hands while my mind wanders, of practice in creating something immediately tangible, necessary, and inherently impermanent.

A healthy tokozuke is sweetly pungent, the aroma pleasantly sour and nutty. Its consistency light and airy as though foaming from within like a blossoming flower.