Beating Rice

Note: the following post is an excerpt from my WIP, the Bath Tub Stories.

– It is taken from the chapter on New Year’s festivities.

Picture source: http://www.wabei-mono.com/blog/2007/12/

  

The entrance to the shrine grounds greeted us with steamy wafts of think sweet air coming from the over-sized iron pot dangling from its tripod over a large wooden fire contained in a metal barrel. Red bean soup with soft white balls of pounded rice simmered with long steady puffs of invitation calling the crowd to gather at the shrine.

“Later,” Aki told me at the hint I might venture on over to grab a bowl of soup. “We’ll have some azuki soup on our way out. It’ll settle well in our tummies while we’re soaking.”

“But…”

“No time now,” she barked, marching on ahead of me. Stuffed shopping bags were swinging at her side, powered by the pumping of her arms. I scampered to dodge people trying to catch up with her.

We found the mocha-making corner at the far end of the grounds. Three long tables with white cloths stretched out before us. The center table held wooden framed trays filled with flat, palm-sized powdery balls of doughy rice patties. The table to the left was covered with empty tray yet to be filled, and Jitsu and her friends were serving hot green tea at the table to the right. The pounding bowls, situated between and behind the tables, looked like deep birdbaths perched on cement pedestals. The men ruled the pounding bowls while the women orchestrated the activities at the tables.

“Mama! Angel-san! You are just in time!” Kenichi ran up to greet us, quickly taking the bags from Aki and handing me a large wooden mallet. He pulled me over to one of the pounding bowls. Three other men were anxiously ready to take over in explaining the process of mochi-making to me. Speaking all at once, I found it easier to watch the activities at other pounding bowls to get the idea.

“Yoosh! Yaroo!” I cried out, “I’m ready, Kenichi! Let’s do it!” Feet firmly planted, knees slightly bent, heavy mallet raised high over my head, I was primed, prepped, and biting at the bit.

“Aim for the center,” Kenichi yelled just as I swung. The mallet plunged into the thick, sticky wad and it stuck. It stuck there like it had been grabbed and clinched by the blob of dough. All the other swinging mallets at other pounding bowls slapped and sprang back out in a high energy kind of rhythmic dance. Mine was firmly stuck.

The men fell back away from the bowl laughing and marching in circles - knee-slapping, hand-clapping hilarity broke their concentration.

“Oh Angel-san, you are so funny!”

“You can’t stick it like that!”

“Woo-hooo- hooo!”

“Get Angel-san some sake! She needs to loosen her elbows.”

The women giggled, but no one moved to pour me a drink.

Kenichi grabbed the mallet from me and proceeded to demonstrate: mallet up, breath in, knees bending; exploding exhalation used to fuel the downward swing, body lifting, Whap! That’s the full thrust of the mallet into the big pile of sticky rice dough; then body lowers to power the reflex snap-up pull at the end of the exhale.

“Yank out of the swing at the exact moment of impact?” I asked.

“Un. Whap! Pull!”

“OK!”

I gathered my energy and lifted the mallet, this time more dramatically, more deliberately. Controlled breath guided my power. It landed hard into the lump of rice and indeed, snapped back out!

Picture source: 

http://iamaviking.com/2006/12/18/making-mochi-%E9%A4%85%E6%90%97%E3%81%8D/

“Woa! Get in there,” Kenichi ordered.

The men swooped back into position. They reached into the pounding bowl and scooped up one side of the over-stuffed, pillow-like wad of the rice as if lugging the side of an inflatable swimming pool. They punched it hard in the middle and pulled back their fists just as I brought the mallet back into the center.

Whap! And pull; whap! And pull. Fists were flung into the white material each time I brought the mallet out and over my head – lift and punch. Down with the mallet – whap! And pull.

picture source: 

http://iamaviking.com/2006/12/18/making-mochi-%E9%A4%85%E6%90%97%E3%81%8D/

I began to dance my role. Dip and such as I lifted; jump and slam and I beat. My partners were an integral part of the dance – lean inward, lift and punch in time with my jumps, then sway back from the bowl with grace and ease, a gentle receding with each powerful blow from the surprising strength of my arms.

The rhythm worked like cogs in antique machinery – clickity-clack; clickity-clack; on and on until the rice was smooth like taffy.

Picture source: http://kiroma.wordpress.com/

………………….........................….

We plucked mochi from the trays with disposable chopsticks and took them to the tea table where we wrapped them with dried, crispy strips of seaweed. Then we laid them on a grill over the nearby fire. Turning them with our chopsticks until they were drippy and gooey, I swallowed hard the saliva that pooled on my tongue in anticipation.

Jitsu appeared quietly at my side offering me a saucer with a soy and sugar mixture.

“Your mochi is done, Angel-san,” Aki told me. “Now dip and eat.”

I slathered the mochi into the sauce and slurped it into my mouth.

I moaned the savory satisfaction then passed the saucer to the woman next to me.

“Hurry up,” Aki said, “mine is ready next!”

Jitsu brought us each cups of hot green tea to help wash the thick sweet lumps down our throats. She retreated from the circle unnoticed, just as she had arrived.

“No more,” Aki told me as I gulped my third mochi. “You still want azuki soup, don’t you? It’s bad for your health to stuff your tummy before taking a bath.”

Drums: Finer Things

The following is an excerpt from my WIP, The Bath Tub Stories. I am including it here because it describes, at least a little, why I consider drums one of the "finer things in life". 

Photo credit: Flickr

Aki turned back to face me, taking her cloth from my hands.

            “Thank you,” she said, and without breaking the movement of her body, she placed her rinse bucket at her feet, dropped her cloth into it, and turned on the faucet allowing the water to fill and spill over its curled lips, freeing the cloth of its dirt and foam. Wiping a clearing in the fog on the mirror in front of her with the heel of her hand, she continued, “So that was the first sunrise on earth. You see, it was the sound of God’s heartbeat that called light into the world. And that’s why the drums are so important.”

            “Isn’t that the cave by the sea?” I asked.

            “Of course, and there’s a shrine there now to mark the spot. Have you been there?”

            I nodded.

            Ei-san pulled herself out of the soaking tub, her skin glowing a soft red. “Tell her about the drought,” she told Aki. “Angel-san will like the drought story.”

            “Yoosh.” Aki pressed her hands hard into the top of her knees, groaning as she teetered to standing. “Come on, Angel-san,” she muttered. “I’ll tell you about the drought while we soak.”

            Our bodies vanished beneath the green sea kelp water, heads settled as independent buoys marking territories as if for night fishermen. I took in the bitter, salty aroma through my moist nostrils as I listened to Aki’s soothing, mesmerizing voice.

……….      [drought story not included here]     ……….

                                 

            “You’re going to the festival on Saturday aren’t you?” Aki called to me as I gathered my belongings.

            “Sure,” I said.

            “The drums will be there, you know.”

            I smiled, knowingly. Of course the drums would be there.

            “Wait!” she called, as I slid open the door to the dressing room. I turned to look at her.

            “Why don’t you come with me tonight to the drummers’ rehearsal? Come to my house at 7 and my son will drive us to the mountain where they are practicing.”

                      

……….     [scene at Aki’s house not included here]     ……….

            

            We finally arrived at our destination, a gold-roofed shrine placed oddly at the end of a stone footpath on a flat clearing amid radish fields. There was a bare earthen space to one side of the footpath where a small group of people were preparing for the commencement of the evening. Men were lighting torches from the miniature fire contained in a metal barrel; women were laying out blankets and setting out the sake and square bamboo drinking cups, plastic boxes of home-made pickles, chopsticks, and bagged snacks from the convenience store at the edge of town.

            We parked at the side of the road and walked up to join them.

            Aki took over as set-up boss and the other women conceded gracefully, as if part of a choreography designed by the temple spirit. Jitsu and I sat on the corner of the blanket closest to the front and began nibbling on pickles. There were soft brown and bright yellow daikon pickles, short strips of cucumber pickles covered in a barley and miso paste, pea-sized crunchy white pickled onions, chewy pickled carrots, and even pickled cloves of garlic. The sour salty taste was surprisingly delicious. And the sting of warm sake washing it down caused a pleasant sensation in my head.

            Kenichi moved with ease into his role as leader of the men as they finished arranging the drums. A line of barrel drums on large bamboo tripods varying in size from two feet in diameter to nearly four feet in diameter was broken by a wide space, behind which stood the master drum, a magnificent instrument propped on its side so that the skin of the drum faced the small audience. Its base was less than a foot high, yet Kenichi’s head came only to just below its center. Its very presence was powerful and drew me like a magnet into the ancient stories Aki had told earlier. It is alive, she had said. I began to understand.

            Soon it appeared the preparatory rituals were complete. Even Aki had settled herself on an embroidered bum cushion she had brought from home.

            The bare-chested men performed their deep lunges and big arm circles. They took slow, deliberate breaths, exhaling with short, staccato growls. They cracked their knuckles and knees and they slapped each other on the backs. Then, at Kenichi’s signal, they gripped drumsticks the length of a forearm and some as big around as two inches in diameter. This then seemed to cue everyone into silence. Pickle munching ceased, chatter stopped abruptly, and the only movement was in the bodies of the drummers as they took their places behind their drums, moving as swiftly and quietly as ancestor Ninjas.

            Not a breath could be heard. Excited by the anticipation, afraid of making a sound, my own inhalation was long, slow, controlled. I took in more air, then even more, fearful that my exhalation would ripple the space and disturb the intensity of the transformation that was taking over our little mountain gathering. Just when I thought I might float, Kenichi, strong, muscular back toward us, slowly raised his arms as if casting a net of trance-dust over us. Then he let out a cry – long, strong, and enduring; it resonated off the tightly bound skin of the master drum before him. Without fading in intensity, his cry suddenly came to an abrupt stop and the pounding began. Pounding! Pounding that shook the earth. Kenichi sprang up into the air through the balls of his feet, landing in a deep squat. The muscles in his back worked like machinery – bulging out, down, and up, controlling the penetrating rumble of the rhythmic ensemble. The men over the barrel drums did the same. Faces contorted with concentration, the sweat began to form on their brows and cast a glow over their bare, bronze, images.

            I was pulled toward the sounds – sucked into them. The drums were calling and I had no choice but to follow, be taken, and enter. The deep, deafening vibrations of the huge instruments took over all my senses. I could feel them between my ears, in the crevices of my belly, pounding in my chest, and thundering along my spine. Close as I was, it wasn’t close enough; I wanted to be inside them. I was aware of nothing but the drums and the all-encompassing darkness of the night. The monstrous sounds went down inside me, down beyond all flesh and bone, and moved my entire being with profound greatness. Timelessness. Pounding! The drums possessed me. They took me away to an emptiness that somehow seemed comfortable and familiar.

It's alive, she had said.