Sushi, Cosmos and Ramen

I woke up in an old farmhouse tucked into the hills of Aridagawa, in central Wakayama. The house, I was told, dates back to the early Meiji era. Its thatched roof sits against a thick green grove of bamboo.

The water in the garden still held the blue of the night. Beneath a window stood a well-worn wooden sink, and through the open doors I could see the village just beginning to stir.

An old tiled kamado stove still stood on the earthen floor. This morning, breakfast would be made from Wakayama's own specialties: takana pickles for mehari-zushi, Kishu umeboshi plums, red shiso, and soy sauce from neighboring Yuasa.

Yuasa is said to be the birthplace of Japanese soy sauce. I mixed a little of it into the chopped takana. Looking up, I noticed the bamboo framework under the eaves, holding up the heavy thatch.

And when it comes to umeboshi, Kishu is the place. I took the flesh off the pits and chopped it finely while soft morning light came in through the kitchen window. Soy sauce, pickled plums, pickled greens: this is a region deeply tied to Japan's traditional food.

I folded the chopped takana into the rice and pressed it firmly into a ball, then wrapped it in a whole takana leaf. This is mehari-zushi, a traditional dish of Wakayama.

There are several stories behind the name. One says you open your mouth so wide to eat it that your eyes open wide too (me o haru). Another says the leaf seals the rice completely, like taping up a window (meba-ri). Folding in the edges of the leaf, I found myself agreeing with both.

It is said to have spread as a quick lunch for fishermen and foresters to eat between jobs. I also made rice balls mixed with umeboshi and red shiso, and set them out on a black plate.

I wrapped the rice balls in a bamboo sheath and set out. The thatched main house and the storehouse stood side by side in the morning sun.

My destination was Aragijima, designated a nationally Important Cultural Landscape. The Arida River bends in a wide arc, and inside it lies a fan of terraced rice paddies. According to the sign at the viewpoint, an irrigation channel was dug here in 1655, early in the Edo period, making it possible to grow rice.

I sat on a bench and opened the bamboo sheath on my lap. Biting into mehari-zushi and umeboshi rice balls, I gazed over the terraces and the village: a landscape made over centuries by people and nature together. It was a perfectly happy breakfast.

Back at the farmhouse: I'm home. Light filtered through the shoji screens and quietly filled the tatami room.

In the storeroom, old wooden tubs and a mortar had been left just as they were, tools from the life this house has lived.

In the afternoon I headed for the hilltops. Along the way, terraced mandarin groves built on stone walls appeared, with houses lined up along the slope.

The mild climate and the steep slopes, I learned, are ideal for growing mandarins. The fruit was just beginning to turn orange, and a small monorail for hauling the harvest ran between the trees. Past villages that felt unmistakably Wakayama, I kept climbing.

At the summit of Mt. Washigamine, 586 meters up, the Cosmos Park spreads across the peak, with about a million cosmos in bloom.

On a clear day you can see as far as Awaji Island and Shikoku. With the town and the sea hazy beyond the flowers, it felt like standing in a flower garden in the sky.

In Japanese, cosmos can also be written as akizakura, "autumn cherry blossom": a flower that announces the arrival of autumn. Up here, close to the sky, they swayed gracefully in the pleasant breeze. I sat on a bench and let the wind blow over me for a while.

Back down the mountain, I stepped into a ramen shop. Boxes from a noodle maker were stacked by the kitchen, and on each table sat a basket of hayazushi, pressed sushi wrapped in leaves.

You help yourself to the sushi whenever you like (and pay for it at the end, of course). That is the way of ramen shops here in Wakayama. Ever since I'd heard that "in Wakayama, there's sushi on the ramen-shop table," my pressed-sushi-loving heart had been racing.

Unwrapping the leaf revealed mackerel cured in vinegar and pressed onto rice. A wall of menu boards, a red stool by the window, and then the bowl arrived: Wakayama ramen, a pork-bone and soy sauce broth topped with slices of kamaboko. The clean yet rich soup and the straight, medium-thin noodles were wonderful together.

The bright, tangy sushi set off the deep, savory ramen. One bite, and I understood why this supporting actor has a seat at every table.

For dinner, I decided to treat myself to an "autumn Wakayama feast." On the way home, I stopped at a roadside stand with a big MIKAN sign.

Wakayama's signature product is, of course, the mandarin. Boxes marked "In season in Arida" and bags of Arida mandarins were piled out front. The greenish, extra-early mandarins are a must in early autumn.

And maybe I'll go and harvest one more taste of autumn.

Glass in hand by the window, I looked back on the day. Next time: chestnuts, saury, and an autumn feast.