On oranges and other things

I used to hate oranges. In particular, I hated the satsuma oranges my mother would hand me during that time between Christmas and New Year's saying it was for good luck. It was the little bits of pith hiding between the segments that did it for me, those little white bits clinging to the sweet, juicy flesh disgusted me. I've since gotten over that. Perhaps I've gotten used to the bitterness.

I spent most of my day working on making mochi. It's the greenish blog in my hand next to the orange. I don't really know why.

Mochi is just another one of those things you eat around the new year. It reminds me of going to one of the Asian market in Seattle with my grandmother, and after she died, visiting my Grandpa Harry and raiding the freezer for the pack he inevitably had stowed away. They were usually a little stale in their vacuum plastic and gallon-sized Ziploc bag, but that didn't stop my brother and I: the soft, sweet dough always a treat no matter how fresh or old.

I don't know why I made some instead of just buying some. If I spent as much time work out or reading as I do in the kitchen, well I wouldn't be nearly as good at cooking.

And as I sit here on New Year's Day, a satsuma on one side of my keyboard and a plate full of mochi on the other, I wonder about good luck. I miss my grandparents a little bit more and a little it less. I'm reminded of how I've internalized what vestiges of my Japanese heritage that have permeated my suburban upbringing.

I'm thankful for that.