At the center of the table sits a collection of covered containers, arranged on a vintage pewter plate I brought over from Maine. This gastronome’s treasure chests contains all sorts of gems inside.

There is perhaps nothing more simple and divine at the Japanese table than a pristine bowl of snow white shinmai, new rice, to close an autumn meal. Like the wafer at mass, newly harvested rice speaks to the Japanese soul of the divine.

October ingredients lend themselves well to shiraae, a dressing made of tofu mixed with sesame paste and white miso. It’s one of the first traditional dishes I learned to make.

The year of Kuniko’s stroke runs straight through the middle of a five year diary still tucked away in a drawer. The September pages document nothing more than her daily harvest, twelve small chestnuts on the 8th, six on the 9th.

I remain inspired by the clear influence flowing between the the meal at home and the meal in the tea ceremony. Cha-kaiseki draws on kateiryori as the basis of the arrangement and flavors of dishes but affords them the next level of consideration.

The choice of cut has a pronounced effect on the texture of the final bite. There isn’t one correct way but rather it’s the cook’s work to understand the differences, make a decision, and proceed accordingly.

I’m inclined towards a devotion to beauty and it’s encouraged in Japan. Here I find not only its eloquent expression but meaning and value in beauty beyond simple pleasure. I’m granted permission to consider it essential.

It is not my heritage to claim, and not the place of an expatriate to swoop in and make grand declarations. But at the same time I have found in it such beauty, such inspiration, such solace

I had only just learned to make umeboshi the year before. Working by Kuniko's side I scribbled notes on a piece of paper, recording amounts, ratios, timing, and sequence.

Eigi-san always gifts a bag full of shin-shoga, his fresh new ginger. Kuniko saves out a few rhizomes to use fresh and opens brining season with the rest.

Washoku strips away inessentials and places the core essence of an ingredient’s own flavor and character at the forefront. So the origin and condition of ingredient is of principle concern.

The sansho tree has fully leafed out, the leaves broad but still tender and fragrant. The abundance of the moment calls for sansho-ae, perhaps better known as kinome-ae, a creamy, tangy, vibrant green dressing.

Each year the spring burn clears away the winter weeds. Protected by soot-blackened spiky stalks all around and undaunted by overgrowth, bracken farms crown neck first, bowing deeply towards the ground.

Sakamoto-san emerged from the sea in a black wetsuit trawling a large harvest of shin-wakame. The brown, lobe-leafed new spring algae spilled from nets belted to his waist.

These specific flavors of a region are attributed to fudo. Written with the characters for wind and soil the concept is akin to terroir.

The short fukinoto season is drawing to a close and I visit my spot to see what remains. Unlike the shy buds we exalted two weeks ago, they now gape open with yellow tinged petals spread wide.

Fukinoto are the early flower of the common butterbur weed. They are the first of a string of sansai, wild vegetables that we forage throughout spring in the hills of Japan.

If Kuniko, my mother-in-law, were to write the story of her life it might read more as a menu than a memoir.