kiyoko

My first memory of Kiyoko was in the kitchen of my grandparents house on a pond near Lincoln, Maine. I was small enough to feel as though the kitchen counters loomed overhead, and grown-ups bent at the waist to speak to me. Kiyoko had wet hands from chopping carrots into fine little slivers. Her face was kind but I was afraid, made shy by her accent and my inability to understand any variation of English (it was somewhat new to me too then, although I had the benefit of it being my first language).

She made sushi, I fumbled with chopsticks and hid a bit behind my mom. I later played with plastic cubes of tofu, lotus root, sashimi, all brought from Japan by Kiyoko and my uncle, Ward. They told me these were the foods they ate, I thought they seemed awfully strange.

I have since developed an incredible fondness for Japanese food, and more importantly for my aunt, Kiyoko. We share the same birthday, we share a love of fresh vegetables, and I'd like to think we share a bond beyond aunt/niece. I have no trouble understanding her these days.

We made gyoza that tasted every bit as good as the ones I ate in China when I was last in her kitchen.