Is that mochi? Mochiron!

You'll have to forgive me for starting off another blog on the topic of the cold weather, but I have to get something off my chest. Or rather, I wish most of my colleagues here at school would get something ON their chest.

I'm sitting here at my desk at school wearing on my chest, namely: Four shirts (three of them of the long-sleeve variety and one of those three my trusty ol', beat-up, formerly-owned-by-Jack-"the Ripper"-Clark wool baseball undershirt), a thick sweater, and a fleece jacket. And for good measure, I'm also wearing a knit hat (on my head). Granted, it's not how I prefer to dress. But guess what? I'm not cold. And guess what else? The heat is on. Yet another reason to not be cold. (By the way, right now the kerosene heater is making what I swear is that exact same whirling, whistling sound that an airplane's engines make as the plane sits on the runway, waiting to continue taxiing. Makes me wonder where I'm flying to.)

So why, oh why, is practically everyone around me cold? And why does practically everyone around me have to make that horrendous suck-wind-through-their-teeth (accompanied by groans of "samui!") sound every five seconds that absolutely drives me nuts? And why do so many of my colleagues look like they are freezing to death?

News flash: Winter hasn't officially started yet. It's still cold and will be for some time. Stop complaining and dress for the weather. For crying out loud! (Which is exactly what the people around me are doing: Crying out loud!) If you think it's cold here, go to Vermont. Now that's cold!

OK, now that I've gotten that rant out of the way, on to my post for today.

Yesterday, I had the pleasure of participating in a mochitsuki "party," if you will, right here at school. As I mentioned in an earlier blog post, rice is more pervasive in the culture over here than I ever imagined, and mochi is just one more part of that pervasiveness. Mochi is a sort of Japanese "pastry" (ha ha ha) made of rice (mochi rice, of course) that has been pounded into
oblivion by willing participants such as myself. Mochitsuki is the whole process involved in making the mochi.

Most people at the school figured yesterday was my first experience with mochi-making, so they were surprised to hear that I first learned of and participated in mochitsuki at an agricultural festival in Takachiho that was held about a month ago. But that time I was barely involved in the process. This time, I got a much better look at how mochi is made.

So far, the only Japanese food that I've tasted and can't stand at all is a disgusting soybean concoction called "natto." (Natto is so gross that whenever I see it, I want to puke. It reminds me of TV shows like "Fear Factor," and I think to myself: "The only way I'm gonna eat this is if someone pays me a LOT of money.") But I have to rank mochi right up there with the most boring, flavorless, "what's-the-point-of-eating-this?" foods ever created by mankind.

Just about the first step in preparing mochi is, of course, boiling water. Then, the rice, wrapped in a thin cloth "blanket," is placed in a wooden container that sits above the boiling water. When the rice is "done," the fun begins.

The rice is then placed in, or rather, poured into one of various types of big, thick-walled, polished-stone "bowls" that have been wetted down with water to prevent the rice from sticking to them. Then two, three, or four people grab big wooden mallets, dip the ends in water, sort of massage the rice for a minute of so and then start pounding the daylights out of the rice.

A "whacking" session usually only lasts for about a minute. That's because unskilled whackers often hit other mallets or the side of the "bowl" rather than the rice, so occasionally splinters make their way into the mass of rice, necessitating a quick break to remove them. Also, most whackers quit after about 30-50 whacks, since their arms tend to get tired and the rice starts to stick to the mallets. These frequent breaks mean that bystanders often have a chance to join in on the whacking. And about ten of these minute-long pounding sessions later, the rice is ready to be shaped into mini dumplings or pancakes or whatever else you want to call them.

Sometimes, if you're really unfortunate, the mochi is served plain. That is how it was served the first time I participated in mochitsuki as well as at one of the kagura dances I attented. Eating plain mochi is almost like eating chewy Play-Doh. It's NOT good. Other times, such as today, the mochi is filled with anko, a (supposedly) sweet (but really not-so-sweet) azuki bean paste. So what you end up with is pounded rice filled with pounded beans. Heaven! (There's a running joke between me and the kids that anko is actually Japanese chocolate!) And I've also had mochi served with a brown, arrowroot powder that is called kudzu-mochi. I have to admit, that was probably that best type of mochi I've had. It's still just plain ol' rice, basically, lumped into a ball, but at least this wasn't just white rice, it was "brown" rice.

It amazes me that the Japanese put so much work into producing such a plain product. But just about every Japanese person I've met really likes mochi. Have a look for yourself. Doesn't it look delicious? Mochi? Mochiron!*

*Mochiron means "of course."