Col Cooks: Desperation Potluck Sesame Noodles

Perhaps some of you have a teenager. And perhaps that fabulous, beautiful, perfect child who you have loved and adored for almost nine months longer than he or she has been alive, has rattled you with a sentence something like this: "Mom, what did you make for the potluck?"

Potluck? "What potluck?" you ask slowly, your eyes narrowing, and your perfect child not seeming quite so perfect as just a few seconds ago.

"Oh, the band pot luck. I was supposed to bring a main dish. I thought I told you. But if you can't do it, no biggie. I'll just tell them you didn't have the time."

Fabulous, so now you are either the evil working mom who couldn't be bothered to send something in for the pot luck, or you come up with a main course within a half hour.

Friends, next time your perfect child presents this perfect pickle, here is your dish. Because if you cook much Asian food, you probably have most everything in the pantry already. It is not authentic, but it is delicious -- and it will get you off the hook in under 12 minutes*.

Col's Desperation Potluck Sesame Noodles**

1/3 cup light sesame oil

1/3 cup tamari soy sauce

4 T Chinese black vinegar (or any mild vinegar if you don't have it)

2 T brown sugar
2 T kosher salt

1 T chili oil

2 t ground ginger

3 cloves garlic, minced or pressed

juice of 1/2 lime

1 lb. spaghetti

12 basil leaves, shredded (optional)

2 T toasted sesame seeds (optional)

As in all emergencies, start by boiling water!

Whisk all ingredients to lime juice together in a large bowl. Meanwhile, boil spaghetti until al dente. Drain pasta and cool with cold water. Let drain. Toss pasta with sauce. Garnish with basil and sesame seeds, if desired. Packs perfectly in a 2.25 L plastic container.

*Once the water is boiling.
**The original inspiration for this dish was "Sesame Noodles with Asparagus Tips" from Debbie Madison's essential cookbook, Vegetarian Cooking for Everyone. I have tweaked it to our tastes and streamlined it so much that it's no longer the same thing, but I heartily recommend the original -- and the book -- as well!

A Personal Matter: A man comes to grips with a shattered dream

My youngest brother is mentally retarded. He does not have Down’s syndrome, so it took a while for my parents to realize that he wasn’t reaching milestones at the same rate that their other two children had. But by the time he was 2 or 3 it was evident that he was not going to have the same kind of life as the rest of us. Beginning when I was about 6, I can remember my parents’ frustration with the doctors, their anger with the school system when my brother’s needs couldn’t be met, but mostly their deep sadness for the son they loved so much. They mourned for the life they had wished for him that he was never going to have.

The only reason for sharing this story is to confront the prism through which I read Kenzaburo Oe’s forthright and painful A Personal Matter, a semi-autobiographical novel about Bird, a young, selfish man who must come to terms with the birth of an imperfect child – one who doctors tell him is likely to be a “vegetable” if he survives at all.

At the time of his son’s birth, Bird’s marriage is in shambles. He has survived a post-marital bender that diminished his prospects at graduate school, and now works as a teacher in a “cram school,” helping students prepare for their English exams. But Bird’s dream is to travel to Africa – he worries that having a child will tie him to Japan forever. Of course, once he finds out his son is both disfigured and likely to be profoundly retarded, Bird realizes he must finally decide what kind of life he wants to live.

Bird is a mostly unlikeable character. He is uncommitted to his relationship with his wife, even with a baby on the way. And in dealing with his son’s situation, he focuses almost completely on the impact the boy’s life or death will have on himself, not on the others around him. Bird is thoroughly self-absorbed.

The doctor, without a direct reply to Bird’s question, lapsed into silence. Bird watched his face, waiting for him to speak again. And suddenly he felt himself being seized by a disgraceful desire. It had quickened in the darkness of his mind like a clot of black slugs when he learned at the reception window that his baby was still alive, and gradually had made clear to him its meaning as it propagated with horrid vigor. Bird again dredged the question up to the surface of his conscious mind: how can we spend the rest of our lives, my wife and I, with a monster baby riding on our backs? Somehow I must get away from the monster baby. (p. 74-75)

But while Bird seems cold, his predicament is very real. This I know from watching my parents and their friends. Caring for a child with special needs is a difficult job, a strain on even the best marriage. Divorce rates for parents of children with special needs are higher than those in the general population. It takes a truly committed couple to get through the ordeal intact. And Bird knew he had already proved a disappointment to his wife – how could they withstand the difficulties of raising this child. Especially in Japan in the early sixties, a society in which non-conformity was problematic, and shame was a very real part of parenting a special-needs child?

The author does not shrink from facing this and a number of other difficult questions throughout the novel. Oe’s writing is amazingly honest and eloquent, even when forcing us to confront the most horrible urge on earth: to abandon your own child. The book was also surprisingly explicit at points, and even a bit uncomfortable to read. You won’t be fond of Bird by the end of the book, but you will understand him, and that is the author’s greatest accomplishment. Having lived in a family that faced similar issues, I sometimes felt sympathy for Bird, which came as a surprise to me, considering how fierce a defender I have always been of my youngest brother. The book is definitely recommended, but only when you’re in the mood for a dark, somewhat heavy read – that’s when it will best suit your mood.

Asleep: Contemplating the color of slumber

Banana Yoshimoto paints pictures with words: pictures of interactions and pictures of emotions. I love her sparse yet evocative writing style. So when the University Library told me Asleep was available for pick-up, it went directly to the top of my TBR pile.

Asleep is the second collection of short stories by Yoshimoto I have read. As in Kitchen, Yoshimoto employs a young, female narrator in all the stories. And although the narrators’ lives and circumstances are very different, Yoshimoto binds the stories together through her exploration of the different aspect of sleep: healing, renewal, withdrawal and escape.

My favorite story in the collection, Night and Night’s Travelers focuses on the aftermath of the death of a young man, Yoshihiro, and the way the women who loved him deal with the loss. Yoshihiro’s lover, Mari, sleeps through most of the first year after his death, almost as though she is waiting for her life to begin again one morning. His sister Shibami, who narrates the story, remembers him as someone both comforting and mysterious.

”I kind of wonder if that wasn’t The Future, as my childish heart saw it. Back then my brother was something that definitely wouldn’t die, he was both night and something that traveled through night – something like that.”

Night isn’t scary in these stories. It’s a time for thought, and for individual reflection. For Yoshimoto, night provides introspection, allowing us to recharge ourselves for the externally-oriented day.

This collection is simply a pleasure to read. All of the stories have a dreamy, magical quality. Weather imagery suffuses the stories. Rain provides white noise; snow covers and quiets the houses like a blanket. The colors of night – blue, purple, black, silver – calm and cool the senses. I’d suggest curling up with a cup of tea – or a glass of port – and reading before bed time. It’s the kind of reading that soothes the soul.

Kitchen invites quiet contemplation

“Over and over we begin again,” says Mikage, contemplating another day in a life filled with loss, punctuated with the joy that only those who truly understand tragedy can ever feel. Kitchen, by Banana Yoshimoto, has left me thinking about this idea all day.

The one thing you figure you must be an expert on by the age of forty-seven is yourself – your tastes, your tolerances, your boundaries. But sometimes you have to rethink even that. When one of my favorite book blogs, dolcebelleza, announced the 4th Annual Japanese Literature Reading Challenge, I thought, “This is not for me.” I focused on Medieval/Renaissance history as an undergraduate, and my current research area includes Latin America. So I’m all about “international,” but outside of the Indian subcontinent, I haven’t focused much of Asian culture and literature.

The thing is, the challenge was only ONE book. One book? I thought, why not? So I found a Listopia entry for Japanese literature and saw Kitchen. I love to cook, but more than that, I love being in the kitchen, especially with other people. At 152 pages, the commitment wasn’t large. And there was a translation at the university library. Ka-ching. I had my Japanese title.

I opened the book on Saturday morning as I was stranded at my daughters’ dance recital dress rehearsal. By Sunday night, the book had been read. And I realized I needed to rethink what I like to read.

Yoshimoto’s first (and best) novella in the book tells the story of a young woman, bereft of family, who is taken in by strangers – strangers who were linked to her only by their fondness for her grandmother. The arrangement is a happy one for Mikage, but it brings stress to the day-to-day life of Yuichi, the young stranger who invited her to stay. Mikage and Yuichi are satellites in the orbit of Yuichi’s larger-than-life mother, Eriko. The exploration of the relationships between the three is the focus of the Kitchen Parts 1 &2.

The book also includes a short story, Moonlight Shadow. This story was far less satisfying than the first. It also told a story of loss, of a romantic kind. While both books include an element of mysticism, the second story’s resolution was far less realistic—and satisfying – than the first. Frankly, I’m not sure why the author didn’t leave Kitchen to stand on its own. In fact, my four-star rating is really based on the second story – on its own, I would have given Kitchen five stars.

Megan Backus’ translation of Kitchen is soft and restrained. Loneliness is a pervasive theme of the work, and I found myself feeling very quiet while reading. I even imagined the narrator speaking to me in a small, contemplative voice. Each sentence was meaningful. The book forces you to read deliberately – and re-read as well. There is a wonderful mix of personal narrative and global thought in Yoshimoto’s storytelling that I enjoyed immensely.

After reading and thoroughly enjoying The Summer Book and then Kitchen in succession, I have to admit that my tastes in literature seem to be evolving. Am I getting more contemplative in my old age? It’s possible. (Lee and Abbey, you can stop laughing now!) At least I’m getting what I hoped for out of the reading challenges I joined. I am pushing my boundaries, finding new areas of interest, and making time for myself to think and be, rather than do. I’m also increasing my TBR pile, because I’m anxious to read more by Yoshimoto.