We were a three-cup rice family, living in the middle of Nebraska. Three cups of uncooked rice expanded during cooking and filled our pot to the brim with steaming, sticky goodness. Every evening, I’d sit with my brothers, parents, and grandmother, and eat rice. While Grandma and my parents spoke Japanese to one another, my brothers and I spoke in English. Looking back now, I see how these dinners developed a taste, ear, and appreciation for a culture I knew little about.
My grandparents had moved to town in 1930 when they bought a dry-cleaning business from a family friend. My grandparents had immigrated from Japan in the early 1900’s, and run small hand laundries in Idaho and Utah. Surprisingly, when they arrived in western Nebraska, they weren’t the only Japanese in the area. Fifty miles away, about a hundred Japanese were scattered along the North Platte River Valley. Most were sugar beet farmers. Still, compared to California and Hawaii, their numbers were few. In 1930, compared to 139,631 Japanese Americans in Hawaii, 97,456 in California, 3,269 in Utah, 3,213 in neighboring Colorado, 1,026 in Wyoming, Nebraska had only 674.*
After my grandfather died in 1939, Grandma took over the family business. My dad, uncle, and aunts graduated from the local high school. My uncle and dad both married and settled in town, while my aunts both moved to California where they married and settled.
Growing up, I lived in two worlds. Outside the house, everything centered around school, and spending time with friends. I wanted to be just like my friends, wore my hair in a ponytail, joined Camp Fire Girls, went to slumber parties, and basketball games. But once I walked into our house, I was in a different world. There were rules and expectations of behavior, both spoken and unspoken. Remember you come from good blood. Never bring shame to the family. Never forget that people will always remember you and how you act. Education is important. You WILL go to college.
There were different aromas and smells in our house. Shoyu (soy sauce) and miso, sometimes more pungent whiffs of takuan (pickled turnips), or my dad’s favorite fermented bean curd. Framed Japanese woodblock prints were on the walls, a jar filled with chopsticks and rice paddles on the kitchen counter.
After dinner, my brothers and I cleared our dishes and carried them to the sink where Grandma was washing. One by one, she’d inspect our rice bowls to make sure we’d eaten every single grain of rice in our bowl. Afterwards, she’d turn her attention to the rice pot, its interior filled with clean water, soaking off the hard remnants stuck to the sides and bottom. Carefully, Grandma loosened the rice, then transferred the remnants to a small bowl, to be eaten later, reheated with hot green tea.
“Mottainai,” she’d say. Do not waste.
Remembering those long-ago dinners, I realize how they whetted my appetite for what was to come, priming my pump. They linked me to my past and set me on a path of discovery. The language and food my parents and Grandma shared, contained remnants of old traditions, passed down from one generation to the next, and an understanding and appreciation for the soul-satisfying taste of hot rice, eaten with family.
*Paul Spickard, “Japanese Americans: The Formation and Transformation of an Ethnic Group.” 1996, p. 175.