We celebrated New Year’s on the fifth of January this year, breaking a long held pre-holiday tradition of preparing mochi for consumption on New Year’s morning.
Changing the date to celebrate the new year may seem a little radical, but the change allowed more friends and family to participate. We were all eager to celebrate the dawn of a new year, casting off the worries of the past and rejoicing in a fresh start. It was a liberating feeling tinged with the sadness of having lost some dear family members who would have wanted to celebrate with us all.
The switch to a weekend party proved to be a particularly positive decision. Boy, did we have a crowd. I quit counting at 65, but a few more dropped by towards the end of a very long day. The importance of bringing a truly eclectic mix of family and friends must have resonated with many for they were willing to travel from near and far to our home on Willow Flat. The last part of their journey is often treacherous in the winter, given the road is anything but flat. Whoever gave the road its name 100 years ago must have had quite the sense of humor.
Mochi making is traditionally a day when you cast aside the trials and tribulations of the previous year, simultaneously mourn the loss of loved ones, rejoice in their unique lives, and welcome new family members into the fold.
Jakobe Lowe was the youngest one to face the crowd of well-wishers, playing that roll with the grace of one much older than his 11 brief months. He was passed from arm to arm, enduring hundreds of hugs, wet kisses and gentle pats of those adorable cork screw curls that covered his tiny noggin. Young and old alike fell in love with his infectious smile and inquisitive personality. Jakobe took his place at the mochi stump with a little help from family, laughing wholeheartedly as he beat the bejesus out of the steaming mound of rice.
Between forming the rice into mounds as each batch emerged from the mochi machine, we waddled through three tables and sideboards of traditional Japanese dishes, visiting with one another at length.
Much of the conversation was focused on children and grandchildren and hope for a better future for all. Politics were discussed calmly but enthusiastically from the perspective of how are we going to change the political system we are knee deep in at this point in time? How do we change the legal system, the health system, the education system to better serve all people, no matter what their faith, gender, ethnicity or socioeconomic position? How do we illuminate the truth amidst a tangle of lies perpetuated by both well-meaning and mean-spirited people? How do you reach those who deny their prejudices, make excuses for their actions and continue on their discriminatory ways?
It was an eclectic crowd, a multicultural mix of Japanese, Chinese, African American, Latino, Finnish, Swedish, German and Irish, with a huge dollop of Heinz 57. There were infants, toddlers, tweens and teens, Generation X’ers, middle agers and senior citizens.
There were attorneys and deputies, contractors, cooks and counselors, wine makers and preventionists, farmers and farm workers, students and teachers, principals and bus drivers, dentists and woodworkers, realtors and architects, Facebookers and book lovers.
There were people of every persuasion able to converse on every topic in a compassionate manner because of their respect for one another and their desire to help make the new year better than the last.
Sharing your home and a table laden with delicacies of every shape, smell and taste conceivable brings people together. We tasted the wine, drank green tea, coffee and juice. Some were gluten free, others vegetarian, but most were prolific paleo partakers consuming every type of surf and turf imaginable. And since Japanese New Year is a celebration of rice, that which sustains life, rice was made in every shape, form and manner. We steamed it, fried it, rolled it and pounded it. While not too appetizing, there is something very soothing about pounding rice in a bowl hallowed out of the trunk of an ancient Douglas Fir your ancestors. You can pound away your frustration to the beat of the one-two caller kneeled at the base of the mochi altar. Our youngest son, Niko, fearlessly kneads the molten mass, placing his hands in harm’s way as we each take a swing with two heavy wooden mallets, pulverizing the rice trembling at the bowl’s bottom.
We rocked Jakobe and rolled balls of mochi. We danced with Emiko and Payton, read with Aya, colored with Ren. Between batches of steaming rice, MacKenzie, Rayla, and Kendra Trujillo fingerpainted in the dusting of flour that covered the countertops while Cohen and Cooper armed themselves with Nerf guns and engaged in a tumbling battle of foam balls. A band of teens, Cooper Case, Kendra Wilkins, Aunika Yasui and Maddy Trujillo, tried to converse above the din, discussing the intrepid challenge of choosing classes, colleges and careers.
Great food, family and friends. Great conversation, congeniality and compassion. Great diversity, dreams and determination. Great traditions, talent and truth. All these ingredients will make this year, and every year to come a healthier and happier place for all.
Perhaps I can get some politicians to come to the table, pound away their differences at the foot of the mochi altar and join one another in celebrating the incontrovertible truth, that life is precious, differences can be solved and justice is an inalienable right that can be achieved.
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