I'm a picky eater.
My mom already knows this. She spent 18 exasperating years -- the time I lived at home -- attempting to prepare meals that I wouldn't wrinkle my nose at or push around on my plate. Sorry about that, mom.
But now that I'm an adult (specifically, an adult that's trying to fit into a new culture with new cuisine), I'm in the closet. My picky eater status is still (mostly) under wraps here in Japan. Perhaps I've turned a new leaf in the past six months. I've given almost all of the this-would-be-creepy-to-most-Westerners foods placed in front of me the ol' Girl Scout try. I've put these foods in my mouth. I've chewed and swallowed them. I've even forced a smile - or at least maintained composure - when the flavor is so offensive I'd rather spit it out. Included in this latter category are squid-flavored peanuts, fermented soybean (納豆) natto rolls, and, of course, the ever-delicious fried fish sperm sack I so memorably shared with the folks in my Thursday night English class this fall.
Fittingly, it was the Thursday night crew that outted me as a picky eater just last night. They very kindly treated me to dinner at an お好み焼き (okonomiyaki) restaurant the next town over. Okonomiyaki isn't for everyone - it's made of chunks of kinda-scary-looking seafood (think tentacles), mixed with cabbage and eggs, and then topped with secret sauces. It's then grilled at the table before it's topped with more secret sauces dried fish flakes. The flavor is unique, something that my Western palate certainly wasn't accustomed to.
But I like okonomiyaki. The Thursday crew was impressed by this, and asked about other Japanese foods that I liked. Unfortunately, my cover was blown when conversation turned to おでん (oden), a creepy-looking-to-me cuisine consisting of boiled eggs, faux fish cakes and various meats on sticks. These skewers of scariness are a winter seasonal specialty, soaked all day in hot soy broth and sold in big, steamy metal vats at the convenience store check-out counter. Of course, I understand how toasty warm food is über satisfying on a cold winter night. But personally, the idea of buying meat on a stick from a bubbling tub at a 24-hour konbini conjures up images of day-old hot dog water at the 7-Eleven. No, thank you.
When I told the Thursday crew that I wasn't that into oden (I think the word I used was "scary." Oops.), it was as if I'd insulted apple pie in the USA. If wooden chopsticks could make a metallic clanking sound as they're dropped in shock, there would have been a big commotion at our end of the restaurant. Their mouths opened. They audibly gasped and shook their heads in disappointment. And then - this is the worst part - they accused me of not being くいしんぼ.
That's kuishinbo, roughly "good eater." The fact that "good eater" is a part of the Japanese lexicon should clue you in to the value of being a member of the Clean Plate Club here. In a country where people went hungry after WWII, Japanese today are happy to enjoy a good, hearty meal every now and again. Last night, as we sat, stuffed, eyeing the final piece of okonomiyaki still sitting on the grill, I learned that the Japanese believe there is fortune in the last bit of food. Eating it helps makes you kuishinbo.
So long being kuishinbo doesn't require me eating the last bit of oden (or shirako, or natto, or squid-flavored peanuts), we're cool. But in attempts to change the subject, I assured my Thursday night friends that while I wasn't kuishinbo in their eyes, I am most certainly nomishinbo, which is a little Japanese joke I managed to pull off despite my limited language skills. Nomi comes from the word for "drink," so when tacked onto the "shinbo" suffix, makes the phrase "good drinker." The word doesn't actually exist in real Japanese, just in my little confused foreigner speak.
But the faux lexicon got a good chuckle. I'd redeemed myself after the oden incident. There's nothing like a little booze humor to remind us that we're all more alike than we are different. The Thursday night crew is good people.
Nomishinbo. You can decide for yourselves what that means I'm drinking. Suffice to say it won't be hot dog water anytime soon.
My mom already knows this. She spent 18 exasperating years -- the time I lived at home -- attempting to prepare meals that I wouldn't wrinkle my nose at or push around on my plate. Sorry about that, mom.
But now that I'm an adult (specifically, an adult that's trying to fit into a new culture with new cuisine), I'm in the closet. My picky eater status is still (mostly) under wraps here in Japan. Perhaps I've turned a new leaf in the past six months. I've given almost all of the this-would-be-creepy-to-most-Westerners foods placed in front of me the ol' Girl Scout try. I've put these foods in my mouth. I've chewed and swallowed them. I've even forced a smile - or at least maintained composure - when the flavor is so offensive I'd rather spit it out. Included in this latter category are squid-flavored peanuts, fermented soybean (納豆) natto rolls, and, of course, the ever-delicious fried fish sperm sack I so memorably shared with the folks in my Thursday night English class this fall.
Fittingly, it was the Thursday night crew that outted me as a picky eater just last night. They very kindly treated me to dinner at an お好み焼き (okonomiyaki) restaurant the next town over. Okonomiyaki isn't for everyone - it's made of chunks of kinda-scary-looking seafood (think tentacles), mixed with cabbage and eggs, and then topped with secret sauces. It's then grilled at the table before it's topped with more secret sauces dried fish flakes. The flavor is unique, something that my Western palate certainly wasn't accustomed to.
But I like okonomiyaki. The Thursday crew was impressed by this, and asked about other Japanese foods that I liked. Unfortunately, my cover was blown when conversation turned to おでん (oden), a creepy-looking-to-me cuisine consisting of boiled eggs, faux fish cakes and various meats on sticks. These skewers of scariness are a winter seasonal specialty, soaked all day in hot soy broth and sold in big, steamy metal vats at the convenience store check-out counter. Of course, I understand how toasty warm food is über satisfying on a cold winter night. But personally, the idea of buying meat on a stick from a bubbling tub at a 24-hour konbini conjures up images of day-old hot dog water at the 7-Eleven. No, thank you.
When I told the Thursday crew that I wasn't that into oden (I think the word I used was "scary." Oops.), it was as if I'd insulted apple pie in the USA. If wooden chopsticks could make a metallic clanking sound as they're dropped in shock, there would have been a big commotion at our end of the restaurant. Their mouths opened. They audibly gasped and shook their heads in disappointment. And then - this is the worst part - they accused me of not being くいしんぼ.
That's kuishinbo, roughly "good eater." The fact that "good eater" is a part of the Japanese lexicon should clue you in to the value of being a member of the Clean Plate Club here. In a country where people went hungry after WWII, Japanese today are happy to enjoy a good, hearty meal every now and again. Last night, as we sat, stuffed, eyeing the final piece of okonomiyaki still sitting on the grill, I learned that the Japanese believe there is fortune in the last bit of food. Eating it helps makes you kuishinbo.
So long being kuishinbo doesn't require me eating the last bit of oden (or shirako, or natto, or squid-flavored peanuts), we're cool. But in attempts to change the subject, I assured my Thursday night friends that while I wasn't kuishinbo in their eyes, I am most certainly nomishinbo, which is a little Japanese joke I managed to pull off despite my limited language skills. Nomi comes from the word for "drink," so when tacked onto the "shinbo" suffix, makes the phrase "good drinker." The word doesn't actually exist in real Japanese, just in my little confused foreigner speak.
But the faux lexicon got a good chuckle. I'd redeemed myself after the oden incident. There's nothing like a little booze humor to remind us that we're all more alike than we are different. The Thursday night crew is good people.
Nomishinbo. You can decide for yourselves what that means I'm drinking. Suffice to say it won't be hot dog water anytime soon.
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