Untangling My Chopsticks (34 page)

Another morning I hiked up a rocky winding path to the summit of Mount Hiei. As my brown leather sandals crunched the twigs underfoot, I felt a sort of kinship with all the monks who had trod this same path. Unique to Enryaku-ji is the 1,000-day walk that the monks complete over the course of seven years.

During this holy journey, they save every pair of rope-and-cotton sandals that they wear to shreds.

On my second to last day, I finally had the chance to meet with a monk to learn about his life on the other side of the temple. Shortly after breakfast, twenty-nine-year-old Kosho stopped by the guest quarters in black cotton pants, a black kimono-like top, and straw sandals. As he spoke to me in English in the small sitting area off the front lobby, he exuded the most extraordinary sense of warmth, openness, and grace. He had nothing to hide and everything to give, which he did freely.

Kosho told me that monks at Enryaku-ji train anywhere from two months to twenty-four years. Some bonzes like himself, who have finished their initial studies, live off the mountain but commute to the temple each day for spiritual practice and meals.

He also mentioned that the temple relies on donations for all its food. Mochi is one of the biggest offerings, along with noodles, vegetables, and tofu. When times are lean, dinner can consist of spaghetti with ketchup. “Oishii,” he said, grinning.

Driven by curiosity, I asked Kosho if I could visit the tem-ple's kitchen and meet the cook. He kindly agreed and that afternoon stopped by the guest quarters in his shiny gold Toyota. From there, we zoomed through the woods to a small newly constructed temple on the south side of the complex, where we met the twenty-five-year-old cook. After serving us cups of brewed green tea, the cook ushered us into the kitchen, a small but well-equipped space with stainless steel counters, a gas stove, and large refrigerator.

In a Japanese monastery, the cook is often referred to as the
tenzo.
Usually the newest monk in training, he prepares all the meals for the complex. If he doesn't know how to cook, the elders teach him and share their recipes.

The tenzo's yakuseki that night consisted of a humble tofu-vegetable stew, steamed rice, miso soup, pickles, and green grapes. Kosho, who turned out to be a bit of a jokester, explained that garlic and onions are off limits in shojin ryori. “They ruin our breath when chanting,” he said, with a smirk. I later found out the real reason alliums are forbidden is that they are considered mild aphrodisiacs, not exactly ideal fare for those who choose to be celibate.

It was still light when Kosho dropped me off at the guest quarters. Since it was his wife's birthday the next day, he told me he would not be showing up at the temple the next morning. “I hope that's all right?” he asked with concern in his eyes. I assured him it was and thanked him for spending so much time with me.

Later that night in my room, after another ethereal shojin ryori dinner, the phone rang. It was Kosho.

“I was just calling to make sure you found out everything you wanted to know about our cooking,” he said. I assured my new friend I had, indeed, found what I had come looking for. I had tasted the origins of tea kaiseki at Enryaku-ji and at last experienced its spiritual roots.

My visit to Enryaku-ji Temple would not have been possible had it not been for the efforts and generosity of one person: Tomiko. Several weeks before leaving America, I had written her to say I was coming to Kyoto and hoped we might get together. We had been out of touch for so many years that I had no idea if she would respond to my letter or if it would even reach her. By the time I had left for Japan, I had not heard a word.

Then I arrived at the Japanese inn where I planned to stay
for a few days prior to visiting Enryaku-ji Temple. On a small red lacquer table in my six-tatami room lay a fax.

Welcome back to Kyoto, Victoria. It's so nice to hear from you. We'd love to see you. Please call me when you get to Kyoto. Until 7:00 P.M. I'm at the office. Talk to you later!

Tomiko

My eyes misted over as I read her words. She had gotten my letter.

I called her the next day and we agreed to meet for lunch that Friday. She would stop by the inn, which turned out to be seven minutes from her home by car. From there, we would drive to a restaurant, a small neighborhood noodle shop known for its homemade soba.

At 12:10, a cherry-red Fiat pulled over to the curb. Tomiko got out. She had grown her hair below her ears, but because of the heat swept it off her forehead with a black hair band. She seemed heavier and much more hunched over than I had remembered and as she crossed the street I noticed she almost limped in her high-heeled black sandals. A loose short-sleeve black blouse hung over the waist of her peg-leg cream pants and a long double strand of tiger's eye beads swung back and forth as she walked. “How are you?” she asked, smiling broadly.

So often in Japan communications rely on the nonverbal. In conversations, what you refrain from saying becomes most important. We hugged and then stood back and looked at each other. In a matter of seconds, thirteen years had collapsed in on themselves like a house of cards. We had no need for words. Tomiko's and my friendship simply picked up where we had left off.

She and I got together several more times during my stay in Kyoto, which looked pretty much the same as I had remembered. I awoke to the same dull thumping of housewives airing out their futons and still caught my breath as the magical light of dusk, shimmering, hazy, and golden, washed across dark temple doors and the dusky-sage tips of Kyoto's distant mountains. Even the Gion, home to most geisha, brought forth that familiar rush of anticipation, wonderment, and sense of secrecy, as the clop of wooden sandals echoed throughout the warren of twisting side streets.

Of course, there were a few changes, such as the three Star-bucks filled with young Japanese sipping Frappuccinos, noshing on tuna-pumpkin sandwiches, and retrieving e-mail messages on their cell phones to the ubiquitous Michael Franks soundtrack. Several Gap stores had also sprung up, along with a Tiffany's and the glittering new Kyoto Station, a massive conglomeration of glass and metal grids resembling an atrium crossed with an airport lobby. Several indigents now made their home under the bridges of the Kamo River and the frumpy neighborhood near Tomiko's, once filled with cabbage patches and rice paddies, felt more like the Champs-élysées with a Cordon Bleu gift shop, numerous boulangeries, and several Parisian-style clothing stores.

One night I stopped by Tomiko's home for dinner to see Yasu, who looked just the same, except his hair had turned gray. I even got together with Stephen, who was alive and well. Although he had changed addresses and no longer had a genuine teahouse on his property, he was still living with his partner, David, and hosting formal tea ceremonies for friends and tea students.

As I reacquainted myself with the city, I could not help thinking about how living in Kyoto and studying tea kaiseki had
impacted my life. The rhythm of each day in Japan had taught me patience and the ability to make the best of almost any situation.

I also came to embrace good and bad, imperfect and whole, and light and dark. You have to know the bad to appreciate the good; the imperfect offers room for creativity and growth; and only by residing in the dark can you find the light. It was like learning Zen without becoming a monk.

But one of the most poignant messages that Japan pressed into my consciousness was to live each day as if there were no tomorrow. I saw that at Enryaku-ji Temple. In Buddhism, life is seen as fleeting, therefore every moment is sacred and should be appreciated to the fullest. The art of tea embodies this concept. Every tea ceremony becomes a unique occasion because you will never gather again with that same group of people on that day, during those hours, in your lifetime. The evanescence of the gathering, not unlike the brief flowering of the cherry blossoms, heightens the pleasure found in such pathos.

This kind of thinking brings grace and meaning to everything you do, including the mundane. In preparing dinner, for example, you can treat it as either a chore or a joy.

To me, cooking a meal is a gift you give to someone, including yourself. Tea kaiseki taught me that. Each dish becomes a creative expression of the heart, filled with kindness, compassion, and love. That is why the tea ceremony and tea kaiseki will ultimately live on. Both are art forms that despite the many challenges they face nourish the body and spirit.

In many ways, my return to Kyoto was like the second bowl of tea at a chaji. First there is the tea kaiseki to temper your hunger. Then comes the thick tea to lift you toward enlighten
ment. The second bowl of tea, made thinner and lighter, brings you back down to earth. And that is where I felt I had finally landed. Japan had raised me up to unexpected heights, made uncommon things possible, then set me down with a new way of looking at the world.

On the dawn of my departure, the elderly woman who ran the Japanese inn where I had been staying offered to help carry my bags to the street where I would meet the taxi to take me to the airport bus station in southern Kyoto. Her honey-brown dog, limping with age, followed her up the winding alley to where the taxi sat waiting. After helping the driver pile my bags in the trunk, I thanked the woman and gently stroked her dog one last time along its graying muzzle. Then I climbed into the car and sped away, turning around to wave farewell through the rear window.

There is an old Chinese custom in tea for the host to see his guests off by accompanying them to their destination in order to ensure they arrive home safely. It evolved from the concept that the host might never see his guests again, in the event of a war or natural disaster. The Japanese touch at a formal tea ceremony is to wait until the guests are out of sight, then retreat to the tearoom for a moment of reflection.

Just as the taxi rounded the corner, I spun around one last time. There, in the fragile morning light at the end of the street, were two tiny figures—still standing sentinel to see their guest off to the burning world of dust and passions, perhaps never to return.

Cold noodles are a popular summer dish in Japan, especially in temples during August as part of the Obon, or All Soul's Day observance. The noodles are almost always served in chilled glass bowls to give a cooling sensation. Sometimes the somen are even topped with beautiful clear chunks of hand-chipped ice with a cold dipping sauce on the side. Here, slippery cool eggplant slices marinated in fresh ginger and soy sauce add a jolt of spiciness to the plain noodles.

• 1 slim lavender Asian eggplant
  

• 3½ tablespoons soy sauce
  

• 2 teaspoons grated fresh ginger
  

• ⅔ cup vegetarian dashi (
  page 265
  )
  

• ¼ cup sake
  

• ½ teaspoon sugar
  

• ¼ teaspoon coarse salt
  

• 4 ounces dried somen noodles
  

• 2 scallions, trimmed and thinly sliced
  

1. Trim the eggplant and cut lengthwise in half. Cut each half crosswise into four pieces.
   

2. Bring a small amount ofwater to a boil in a medium saucepan. Add the eggplant, skin side down, reduce the heat to low, and cook until just tender, about 4 minutes. The eggplant should be soft, but not mushy, when a toothpick is inserted into flesh. Remove the eggplant from the saucepan and drain, skin side up, on a clean tea towel. Cut each piece lengthwise in half.
   

3. Combine 1½ tablespoons of the soy sauce with the grated ginger in a small dish. Drizzle over the eggplant slices and chill in the refrigerator for at least an hour.
   

4. Combine the vegetarian dashi with the remaining 2 tablespoons soy sauce, the sake, sugar, and salt in a small saucepan. Bring to a boil, reduce the heat to low, and simmer for 4 minutes. Cool the mixture and then chill in the refrigerator until cold, about 2 hours.
   

5. Shortly before serving, boil the somen according to the package directions. Drain and rinse under cold water to cool. Transfer to a large bowl of ice water.
   

6. Using your fingers, or chopsticks, pick up one fourth of the noodles and twist into a neat coil. Place the coil in a glass bowl, tucking the ends under the coil. Arrange a portion of the gingered eggplant in the center of the noodles. Carefully ladle the chilled dashi mixture around the noodles. Sprinkle each serving with some scallions.
   

Makes 4 servings