Chapter Five
IN late January, Ayako invited me to join her in making chun bing to celebrate the start of the new season. She explained that chun bing, “spring pancake” in Chinese, was a traditional dish prepared using the first vegetables of the new year’s harvest and consumed in the waning days of winter. The concept reminded me of nanakusa-gayu, the seven-herb porridge cherished as a seasonal delicacy in Japan.
It was a beautiful Saturday. My mother was away at work, my father was sleeping off another long night on the job, and my brother was out with his friends. With absolutely nothing else planned, I eagerly responded to her message with a “Yes!” and departed for her house.
“It’s essentially a thin dough filled with your ingredients of choice—vegetables, meat, you name it,” Ayako said.
“Kinda like hand-rolled sushi?” I ventured.
“More like Peking duck I’d say.”
We combined bread flour and cake flour, adding near-boiling water to form a dough. As I rolled and pressed it with my hands, the mixture quickly smoothed and developed a nice sheen. It stretched well yet still felt light and airy to the touch, which I hadn’t quite expected. Perhaps that was because of the hot water?
“When it’s as soft as a baby’s bum, you’re all done,” Ayako instructed.
Although I was tempted to continue kneading the soft, silky dough, it was ready. I shaped it into a ball and transferred it to a mixing bowl, covering the container with a damp cloth. The next steps involved dividing the dough into tiny, grape-sized balls before pressing them paper-thin and cooking them on the stovetop.
Ayako had prepared two fillings: a Chinese-style salad with shrimp, glass noodles, and bean sprouts, and Peking duck. With the salad already done, all that was left was the honey-marinated duck breast, which I fried under Ayako’s watchful eye, filling the kitchen with its fatty, sugary aroma. Once that was cooked through, we merely needed to shave it into thin slices akin to roast beef and voila, it was ready to serve.
Towada, meanwhile, was out in the yard, keeping Koro and the oaties company. Since we were just about finished in the kitchen, I glanced out the window and caught them in the middle of playing fetch. Well, that’s certainly a heartwarming sight.
I moved to the patio door and slid it open. “Towada, food’s almost ready!” I shouted. The oaties all dispersed in an instant, though one oatie—my oatie—swiftly bounded over to me. With a dexterous leap, it hopped onto my shoulders. Aw, I love you too!
As Towada approached with Koro, the distinct sound of the gate latch drew my attention. Expecting a delivery person or the postman, I was surprised to see a tall man dressed in a pristine suit and coat, his hair perfectly styled. Towada stiffened, and I heard him draw a sharp breath. The man advanced toward us purposefully. The color of his hair, his tightly pursed lips, his striking eyes—his features reminded me of Towada, yet his overall bearing couldn’t have been more dissimilar.
“What are you standing there for, Takumi? Forgotten the face of your own father, have you?”
“Dad.”
That was all that was exchanged before a weighted silence descended upon them, an unspoken tension thickening the air. Were they sizing each other up? Engaged in a staring contest? A wordless discussion? I didn’t know how to describe just what exactly was happening between the two.
I was at a loss; I’d thought his father wasn’t due for another week. I glanced at the oatie for support, and it simply looked at me with curiosity. How are you still so cute even in times like these?
“Hurry on inside you two, everything’s rea—oh my.” Ayako had finally stepped outside to check on us.
“A-Ayako!” I exclaimed, relieved to see her.
“Akira, welcome. We weren’t expecting you for another week,” she said, yet her tone was one of acknowledgment rather than shock.
Akira finally looked away from his son. “My plans changed.”
“They like to keep you on your toes, don’t they?” Ayako replied. “Have you had lunch yet?”
“No.”
“We were just about to eat. Would you like to join us?”
Towada visibly tensed, but his father nodded. And so we convened indoors to enjoy our chun bing.
✦ ✦ ✦
“SORRY I missed your text. I hadn’t realized you’d arrived and checked into your hotel already.”
“It happens. I didn’t expect you to adjust for me.”
Amidst the adults’ intermittent conversation, Towada and I quietly savored our meal. Luckily, Akira seemed rather understanding in that he didn’t fault Ayako for failing to check her phone while she was cooking. With Towada’s father suddenly thrown into the mix, I’d been worried the atmosphere might curb my appetite, and fortunately, those concerns were mostly unfounded: the chun bing was delicious, and the speed of my adjustment surprised me.
“You have great timing, Akira,” remarked Ayako. “Had you come a day earlier, you might have had to settle for a simple ochazuke for lunch.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Do you miss Japanese food?”
“I’m not fussy.”
“Glad to see you haven’t changed.”
Despite his stated lack of interest, Akira, sitting opposite me, voraciously consumed everything before him. Whether of the chun bing or the additional rice balls we’d made, he partook without hesitation. I momentarily forgot my discomfort in the face of his appetite, it serving as a distraction from the peculiar scene unfolding before me.
I looked down at the oatie on my lap. No, the oatie wasn’t peculiar in the slightest; it was always there. No—what was peculiar was the veritable army of oaties gravitating toward Towada’s father.
Three settled in his lap, one perched on his shoulder, and five more lingered by his feet, seemingly waiting for their turn. Those already atop him sought to climb yet higher up his body, only to fall down, rise, and try again. Just what is going on?
He didn’t possess the sight and had to be unable to feel their weight or warmth, because he appeared utterly unbothered. It took all I had to keep myself from bursting into laughter at the sheer absurdity of the spectacle. The mischievous oaties clambering up and down the stone-faced man as though he was a summit to be conquered was far too much for me to ignore.
I glanced at Ayako for help, and she simply smiled back at me. I swiveled to Towada beside me; he just looked away. No, please, I need someone to acknowledge the situation. I’m going to explode!
Attempting a diversion, I loaded another chun bing wrapper with duck, spring onion, and sweet bean sauce. But just as I was about to take a bite, an oatie scaled Akira’s face and quickly slid off. My mouth was already open; there was no saving me. A series of puffs, huffs, and odd vocalizations emerged as I desperately struggled to hold back my laughter.
“Kitazawa, was it?” Akira addressed me. “I heard you’re quite the bizarre young lady.”
“Dad,” said Towada in curt reproach. He shared his blunt manner of speech with his father, but I could hardly dwell on the realization. Two oaties were working in unison to tug on Akira’s cheeks, stretching them out like dough. Another, having finally surmounted his head, appeared utterly triumphant as it started to rhythmically rap his scalp while singing what I assumed to be a song of victory.