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The Ritual Ends
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My father circled the kitchen table, hovering above those who were sitting and eating his udon soup; he was quick to catch the slightest compliment within his earshot. Each Sunday for close to fifteen years, he looked forward to the satisfied groans and slurps as family and guests enjoyed this meal. Often, he could be heard to ask, "Now, where could you get udon like this"" Not even waiting for an answer, he would be quick to say with a wide grin, "Nowhere, I say! Isn't it the best you have ever eaten"" As we all grunted in agreement, he continued, holding his chest up high, "And, I should know because I have traveled far and wide in the Orient and have eaten the best udon ever offered! Nothing beats what you are eating here today - trust me."
But the longer Dad made udon over the years, the more vulnerable he became to criticism from the very family members he fed. As my younger siblings especially became older, they gained courage to become more vocal with our father, trying to correct his ways. After all, many of us had graduated from or were enrolled in college and felt compelled to expose our parents to newer ways and help them cast away the old, the ineffectual- in this case, the unhealthy. Each of us was well aware that we were treading on very dangerous waters, but found a need to assert ourselves, to have our voices heard especially by our father, no matter what the cost.
One particular morning, my youngest sister Aiko, the most tenacious of us all, had the courage and audacity to stand up to him yet again. "Dad," she addressed my father one morning as she sipped the soup thoughtfully. He recognized that familiar look of hers and steeled himself as he thought, "Here comes another criticism of some sort from that girl. Such a namai-ki (impudent) daughter! What is happening to our younger generation these days, speaking without any forethought, any respect for their elders! What is it about going to college that makes my kids feel free to take potshots at me, the very one who wiped their asses when they were little"" However, his curiosity got the better of him with the need to know what was on her mind. Gathering up fortitude, he turned to face her straight on, waiting for her to speak.
Aiko drew a deep breath and then proceeded, her words always razor-sharp, especially with him, "Dad, have you ever thought of degreasing the soup before you served it" Lately, I tell you, my stomach gets so terribly upset each time I have this soup. I know, for certain, that the grease is the cause of this queasiness. Sometimes, a huge mass of fat is just floating on top of that broth, I swear!"
The expression on Dad's face with his head slightly tilted to one side appeared to say sarcastically, "Oh really, my dear." He considered it beneath himself to respond verbally to her and instead, thought, "Gads, I would love to see HER make udon every weekend! It is no easy thing! Ha! She will fall flat on her face, I know " flat, I tell you! Why, I haven't even seen that girl boil water! And besides, did you hear me beg her to eat my udon""
Some of us at the kitchen slid down in our chairs, burying our heads further in our bowls; others gulped their noodles quickly so that they could make a fast exit out of this kitchen. One brother even poked my sister, pulled at her sleeves to warn her, to beg her to shut up. Our hearts beat hard as we feared that Aiko had again crossed that line that only promised trouble, especially when Dad became this silent. "Oh Jimmy," gushed my Aunt Masae nervously, "I won't trade this udon for the world. It is the best. I mean it. I look forward to eating it each time I visit." But as usual, her words, always eager to please or pacify, fell on his deaf ears.
Our sister felt like she was on a roll and relentlessly, carried on, "And I agree with what Dan said last week about the udon having too much shoyu (soy sauce) too. You know, too much salt is so unhealthy we are learning these days, Dad!" He looked quickly at his wife whose eyebrows had lifted just then " her way of saying, "See Jimmy, I told you about overdoing the shoyu." His wife had repeatedly lectured him that a good cook always seasoned any dish mildly, leaving it up to each person to adjust the taste to his or her liking. Her comment was always dismissed, but here were her own children validating what she thought and was told.
And so, Dad stood in his yukata (Japanese robe), his feet firmly planted on the floor, his arms crossed in front of his chest, his eyes becoming razor-sharp slits, not giving one verbal response to this onslaught of criticism. Quickly, he threw the kitchen towel to the floor, swore under his breath, turned on his heels, and departed, leaving us in the kitchen. "Oh God, Aik," my youngest brother whispered, "he is so pissed off! Man, you should have known when to stop " you never do!" The rest of us sat, looking at each other and wondering what would happen next - this scene was more dramatic than any television program. Aiko, suddenly with wide eyes, realized the damage she had done and tried to run after my father, "Dad, Dad, I was only trying to be helpful, to make your udon even better. You know how much we all love it. Please, please come back to the kitchen." We could hear her voice fade into the living room without one response made by our father. He did not return to the kitchen that morning no matter who repeatedly tried to humor him back. Instead, Dad settled down in another room to read the Sunday Chronicle from cover to cover as if nothing happened.
After that particular day, my father never lifted a hand again to make that udon soup despite repeated words of apology and encouragement made by family and friends. In Dad's eyes, giving into us after being so mistreated, so unappreciated would have been an unforgivable act on his part. He was no fool.
Dad has now been gone for over twenty-five years with our family home in Berkeley sold. All of his children, grown with families of their own, often speak of my parents" generosity in opening their home to friends and family for udon for so many Sundays. Over the years, I have met old high school and college friends who still reminisce about eating and loving Dad's Sunday soup; he would have felt so vindicated hearing their compliments.
This morning, as I throw a turkey carcass into a huge pot of boiling water to begin making congee soup, I especially think of my father as today my siblings and I carry on his legacy of feeding family and friends. This act of caring today is as important to us as it was to him many years ago. And I won't be surprised if we responded similarly if our cooking was ever criticized. We are so much like Dad.
©Jan Matsuoka, 2008
Jan Matsuoka, a summer fellow of 1985, has been retired from teaching since 2000. This piece, "The Ritual Ends," is the second she has written for this paper and again centers around her father's cooking of udon on Sundays. She appreciates this chance to publish and to have this audience, encouraging her to write during her spare time.
Jan, your story is touching. I know just how your dad felt, how you all felt in that kitchen. Thank you for sharing your story.
Theresa
--Theresa Sanders ( terrytheteacher@sbcglobal.net ) from usa on 7/6/2008; 8:49:26 PM
Hi Jan,
I remember you well!
I love your piece. It is so tight; so true; poignant.
Barbara
--Barbara Bornet Stumph ( bbornets@yahoo.com ) from USA on 4/4/2008; 1:52:09 PM
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Copyright 2008 Digital Paper
Copyright 2008 Digital Paper
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