American Taiyaki

My childhood summers always started with an “end of school” celebration at a friend's home. No matter which friend hosted it, the tradition was that we always began summer with grilled burgers and hotdogs. Our mouths watered as the juices from the glistening meat dripped into the fire, making sizzling sounds, while scents of warm heartiness and smoke filled the air. My friends’ parents were usually health conscious enough to provide green salads, which my friends and I all ignored, preferring to munch on salty, greasy chips and sweet medleys of fruit to stave off the growing hunger as we awaited the main course on the grill.

Then came the summer bonfires, sometimes in a friends’ backyard, or by my next-door-neighbor’s pool or, when we were very lucky, at the California beach. I’d sit in my one-piece swimsuit and a towel, dripping from the water games, (occasionally with bits of exploded water balloons still caught in my long, black hair,) shivering in the cool night. As soon as I could get near enough to the fire, I skewered a squishy, fluffy, marshmallow onto a pointed stick, then ignited it. My ideal marshmallow was charred black on the outside, oozing on the inside. I’d pull it out of the flames, still alight, and close my eyes to make a wish before I blew it out, as if it were a birthday candle.

“I want these days to never end.”

“Please let life always be as sweet as this.”

Or, sometimes just “Thank you for this perfect moment.”

Marshmallows really didn’t need anything else, but I was not one to turn down chocolate when available, so often we would sandwich the sweet puffs between graham crackers with a piece of chocolate. When I was a young child, we always used simple chocolate bars, but once Linda Meyer introduced me to a caramel-filled chocolate cup candy instead, there was no turning back. The trick was to assemble this concoction, called a s’more (because you always want some more) as quickly as possible, with the heat of the crispy burnt marshmallow melting the chocolate between the graham crackers and releasing the caramel inside. The caramel blended with the ooze of the marshmallow, stuck in place by the white stickiness as it cooled, until the crunchy, chocolaty, caramel sweetness was the perfect temperature to safely devour.

Linda Meyer was my best friend from 1st grade through our freshman year in high school. Just before our sophomore year, her father got a job promotion that forced their family to move to Wales. Long brown hair, bright hazel eyes, and dimples in her cheeks, Linda was a merry companion and a generous soul who laughed easily at my jokes, even the bad ones, and made me, and everyone else around her, feel like we were all loved. It takes a truly special person to make others feel that way. She dreamed of growing up, getting married, having lots of kids, and being a kindergarten teacher someday. It was nothing like my dreams of becoming a triple-threat singer/dancer/actress and traveling the world as I starred in block-buster films, or my parents’ dreams of me becoming a world-renown researcher discovering the cure for every ailment of mankind, but Linda was a joyful girl who made everyone around her happy. I figured a part of her magic came from her ability to find great pleasure in all the little things in life. She didn’t need big dreams – and her dreams, easily achieved, would not only please herself, but also her family, friends, and students. I knew that, if I ever had kids, I’d want them in Linda’s kindergarten class.

We promised each other, tearfully, that we’d keep in touch forever when she moved, but letters grew further apart over the following years until they ceased altogether. I never saw Linda again. Still, every summer, even now that I’m an adult, I enjoy bonfires and smores with caramel candies instead of chocolate bars. When I blow out my marshmallows, I now make a wish for Linda’s happiness. I’m quite certain, knowing Linda, my wishes always come true.

My friends and I also enjoyed movies throughout the summer, always with buttered popcorn that sometimes made it into our mouths, especially when the grownups were watching, but also got tossed at the backs of the heads of the boys we liked and the girls we didn’t. We’d struggle to suppress our giggles behind innocent faces, acting like we were watching the movie, when our victims would scan for their popcorn snipers.

Javier Muniz was the only boy who figured out what we were doing and why. I was a sophomore. He was a year ahead of me, tall and athletic, with brown skin, black hair and eyes, and a slow smile that melted me into a quivering flutter of butterflies whenever I saw it. He was the kind of super-cute boy I figured would never like a nerd like me, so I alternated between spying on him, when I could do so secretly, and ignoring him whenever he glanced my way. He was the perfect popcorn target when we were at the movies at the same time, and I tried my best to maneuver my friends so we were always sitting within striking distance of the back of his head.

Then, one day, he cornered me outside the theater, after the movie where I had successfully hit him five times, and insisted I pay a fine for every piece of popcorn with which I had pelted him. I had to give him five kisses before he’d let me pass. I acted angry as I pecked him quickly on his cheek, but he turned his head and caught the last peck with his lips, giving me my first real kiss, ever. He tasted like salt and hot butter in my mouth. It was weird, and wonderful, making me tingle all over. Popcorn had never tasted so good. I found myself wishing I had had much better aim.

“Does that make you sorry for what you did, Akemi?” he asked me, with his slow grin. It shocked me that he knew my Japanese name, since I went by the name Carrie at school.

Stunned, I answered, honestly, “Not at all,” before I could think to stop myself.

He laughed, but when he tried to kiss me again, I ducked away and fled into the girl’s bathroom until my friends assured me that he had finally left.

It was a whole year before I agreed to give him my phone number, and then only because we were partners on a science fair experiment and had to work together. Somehow, he got me to promise him, if he stopped goofing off and we won first place, I’d go on a date with him. I had to sneak out of my home, behind my parents’ back, to keep that promise. Through the rest of the year, I did that more and more often, nearly getting caught so many times that I suspected my parents must know what I was doing, but not want me to know they knew. I wasn’t sure, however, so I kept hiding. It wasn’t until Javi’s Senior prom that we made it official that we were dating.

My parents liked him, they told me, but they were not pleased that I was dating anyone at all. They were relieved when he left for college, and when I went to a different college the following year. As they predicted, Javi and I eventually drifted apart, but I still savor the taste of salty, buttery popcorn, in his memory.

4th of July was our neighborhood potluck, starting in our many front yards, as we walked the street from one house to another, but extending into the middle of the street until cars were spotted, needing to pass. As soon as they had gone their way, the street filled again, especially when it came time to light the fireworks.

Mrs. Whedon always made dolmas – pickled grape leaves with spicy meat rolled inside. Mrs. Kevler was famous for her deviled eggs. The Alverez family and the Esguerra family kept a friendly competition for the best Mexican dishes, with tamales always my favorite, no matter who brought them that year. There were hamburgers and hotdogs always available, of course, coleslaw, potato salad, lots of different chips, and tons of fruits, usually mixed together in pretty serving bowls.

Then there were the pies. I loved the pies that each family would provide – fruit pies, custard pies, meringue pies, even, one year, an avocado pie that tasted like lime – every pie was wonderful in its own way. Each year I would suggest we make it a pie competition with me as the judge. Since my family didn’t usually bring a pie, I argued that I could be completely objective. The families laughed, good naturedly, at my suggestion and promised to consider it, but the competition never happened. I made sure to get my taste of every pie each year, anyway.

In my opinion, my family shown the brightest at this potluck. Several days before, I would make the teriyaki sauce, peeling and chopping fresh garlic and ginger, while my mother cut the chicken pieces. We would let the meat marinate in the sauce for a full day, at least. Then I would prepare the teriyaki sticks for the grill, spearing tomatoes, onions wedges, mushroom caps, pieces of bell peppers, and sometimes pineapple chunks between the meat slices, making the sticks colorful and bright. Meanwhile my mother rolled her homemade sushi by hand. Our family had to taste and approve everything before we took it out to the potluck, however, because it always disappeared so quickly, we wouldn’t get any for ourselves if we didn’t.

When my older brother, Minoru, whose American name was Andrew, was old enough, we got a fryer so he could make tempura – thin slices of carrots, eggplant, zucchini, and other veggies, lightly battered and deep fried, while my father grilled the teriyaki sticks and my mother served up her sushi. The wonderful aroma of the teriyaki sticks quickly drew the neighbors even from the farthest end of our street. When Minoru was finished using the fryer, an old woman whose name was Tia, took it over, with our permission, and fried rosettes. I’d watch her dip a set of beautifully shaped irons at the ends of long, bent, metal rods, into a batter, then float them in the hot oil until the fried batter fell off the iron, still holding its shape. They were quickly cooked, then scooped onto paper towels on plates and sprinkled with powdered sugar or, sometimes, cinnamon sugar. These were my favorite summer flowers, not only for their flavor, but also for the way Tia’s blue eyes sparkled as she shared them with us. Her English was not very good. I think she was Scandinavian but she always made an amazing Dutch apple pie, with high, woven sides and plentiful cinnamon sugar. It would have won the pie competition every year, had I been judge, and her crispy rosettes with just a touch of sweetness melted in my mouth and claimed my heart. I secretly thought, next to my own family, Tia was the best cook in the neighborhood.

The 4th of July when I was 12, my mother said it was time I find something to offer for the next year’s 4th of July potluck. It wasn’t supposed to be a competition, but I was determined to find something to wow our neighborhood.

For the next few weeks, I tried recipe after recipe, to my family’s delight, but nothing pleased me enough. Then came Obon.

In our area the Buddhist Obon festival was spread out over the summer months, mostly in July, so that the musicians, drummers, and professional dancers could visit one Buddhist temple after another, playing from late afternoon deep into the night. Our temple always celebrated at the end of July. It was my favorite holiday of the year, because I could dance. For a whole month we would practice the moves, in normal street clothes, every few evenings for a couple hours at our temple.

When Obon finally arrived, my mother and I donned our best kimono, tied with beautiful, wide obi belts. My mother’s obi had a deep burgundy flowered pattern with shiny gold flecks, reflecting the gold embroidery in her black kimono. My obi was blue and teal with a gold strip worked into the bow, looking perfect against my white kimono. We both put our hair up with fancy kanzashi flowers. I went bare faced, but Mama usually painted her face, lightening her skin color then painting her lips a bright burgundy and adding colors and black lines around her eyes. When she was done, she looked like a beautiful porcelain doll. My father would wear his men’s kimono. My brother refused to wear a kimono, preferring a happi coat over pants, because he said the men’s kimono was a dress and only girls wore dresses, but my father, when he wore his, looked regal and very manly. He was always handsome, but in his kimono with his haori long coat over it, he became majestic. I liked to imagine him as a shogun in ancient Japan. He kept ruining the illusion of stern power, however, by grinning and laughing.

We arrived at the festival early enough to play at the game stalls. Then the strings of lanterns over our heads were lit, the drumming started, and the music began. All of us dancers assembled, the professionals in the inner circle, the rest of us copying them from the outer circle. Around and around, we danced for the crowd, our movements mimicking the movements of our ancestors, since the purpose of Oban was to honor their spirits. My favorite was the fisherman’s dance, rowing the boat, casting out the net and pulling it in, then raising my arm in a curve behind me and looking up at it, pretending I was looking at the moon. We made the hard work of common people into graceful art. We made the ordinary extraordinary. Music and dance can do that. Dancers came and went from the circles as they pleased, but I stayed until the very last dance, enjoying every precious moment.

Afterward, famished from my efforts, I had to hurry before the food stalls closed. My favorite food was taiyaki, and I had only ever gotten it at Obon. The vendors would make them half a dozen at a time, brushing the batter on either side of a fish-shaped iron, like a waffle iron, only deeper, then putting a spoonful of sweetened, red adzuki bean paste in the middle and closing it so the batter cooked around the beans, over the fire in their grills. I watched, breathing deeply of the sweet, bready scent, my mouth already watering, impatient for them to be finished. As soon as they were cooked, the vendors scooped them into napkins and handed them to customers. I always snatched mine quickly, eager to eat, only to find its heat nipping my fingers through the thin napkin. I had to wait, shifting it from hand to hand. Even knowing better, I would still try to bite too early and burn my mouth. When, at last, my taiyaki was cool enough, I would test the heat with my teeth before taking my bite. Then the sweet bean flavor, hidden inside the pancake fish, burst into my mouth, filling my senses with the flavor of joy.

Taiyaki! That was it! This was going to be my contribution to the 4th of July potluck!!!

We had to order a special iron from Japan. While the professionals at Obon had irons that made six fish at a time, my parents insisted that I be content with an iron that only made one. They suspected that our neighborhood would not enjoy taiyaki as I did, and a single iron was the right size for serving our family of four on other days. After the iron arrived, I spent the rest of the year learning how to make it.

It was harder to make than it looked. The pancake batter was very easy, though I experimented with different kinds. Some combination of ingredients and different kinds of flours made it softer while others made a crunchier crust. The sweetened adzuki beans were trickier. I could have ordered ready-made paste, but my mother wanted me to make it myself. She also had me experiment with using honey instead of sugar to sweeten it, because she thought honey would be healthier. I had to wash and soak the beans, then boil them multiple times to get them very soft. The last boiling was with sugar (or honey) in the water. I let the beans cool in this so they absorbed as much of the sweetness as they could. Then I drained them and mashed them, adding more sweetener as I did until it was perfect to my Japanese taste. For my American neighbors I then added yet more sugar, because Americans like things very sweet. I ended up using a blender to get it as smooth as possible, although it was only when I took the time to remove the red skins from the beans that I succeeded in getting it close to the fine texture of the professionals.

Once I had the ingredients ready, it was a matter of practice to learn how to use the iron. At first, I put in too much batter, so it overflowed onto our stove top. Then I used too little, so it didn’t cover the bean paste and the fish was missing parts. I had to be careful, too, to use enough bean paste to fill the center, but not so much that it would show through the cooked batter. For most of the rest of that year my family enjoyed my taiyaki experiments every weekend, as I worked to perfect my skills. By the time the 4th of July potluck came again, when I was 13 years old, I was ready to contribute.

We set up a small bonfire in a portable metal bowl on short, metal legs, with a grill on top. Then I called my neighbors to come and taste. I was kinder than the professional vendors at Obon in that I wrapped the hot taiyaki in multiple layers of paper towels and I warned my neighbors to let it cool before biting. That year, the taiyaki was well received. The next year, however, I ran out of the bean paste while people were lined up for more, so I grabbed some store-bought hazelnut and chocolate paste and used that instead. The demand skyrocketed from then on.

It wasn’t traditional Japanese but, when I thought about it, neither was I. My family was very proudly American, happily adapted to the United States, enjoying all its variety of cultures with people of many different heritages. So, if my hazelnut and chocolate taiyaki reflected that, I decided it was perfect – and my neighbors all seemed to agree.