Perfection

CHOCOLATE CAKE WITH VANILLA BUTTERCREAM*

1 cup boiling-hot water
3/4 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
1/2 cup whole milk
1 teaspoon vanilla
2 cups all-purpose flour
1 1/2 teaspoons baking soda
Rounded 1/2 teaspoon salt
2 sticks (1 cup) unsalted butter, softened
2 cups packed dark brown sugar
4 large eggs at room temperature for 30 minutes
4 cups vanilla buttercream
Various food colorings
Patience
Even temper
Ability to accept failure

Directions

1. Preheat oven to 350º.

Japanese homes usually don't have ovens.
When I first moved into my apartment in Japan, I noticed it was furnished with a microwave. I don't ever cook with microwaves, but my friend Patricia pointed out that it also had an oven function. I immediately began to fantasize about the possibilities: quiche, bread, roasted vegetables, and cake.

2. Butter 2 (9- by 2-inch) round cake pans and line bottom of each with a round of wax paper. Butter paper and dust pans with flour, knocking out excess.

Anvita had invited me to a potluck dinner at her home on Monday night to celebrate our friend Rob's birthday. I've spent birthdays overseas before, and I know how lovely it is to have a proper birthday cake when you don't expect it. As Monday was a holiday and I didn't have to go to work, I felt I could afford to spend a day in the kitchen test-driving my oven and baking a surprise birthday cake for Rob.

3. Whisk together hot water and cocoa powder in a bowl until smooth, then whisk in milk and vanilla.

I was worried that I wouldn't be able to find all the proper ingredients and cookware, but after forty-five minutes of hunting through the giant super-shopping center near my home, I found everything I was missing: unsweetened cocoa powder, cake pans, a candy thermometer, baking soda, a dozen eggs, unsalted butter, a pastry brush, food coloring, and birthday candles. I lugged my goods back home in my bicycle basket, and added them to the assembly of ingredients on my kitchen table.

4. Whisk together flour, baking soda, and salt in another bowl.

The funny thing is, I had never met Rob before. He's been living in Japan for three years now, but he was away for the prefectural orientation for all Tochigi JETs, and whatever social events he attends, I seem to miss. But it doesn't really matter that his birthday party would serve as our introduction; everybody deserves a birthday cake once a year.

5. Beat together butter and brown sugar in a large bowl with an electric mixer at medium-high speed until pale and fluffy, 3 to 5 minutes. Add eggs 1 at a time, beating well after each addition.

There is something decidedly homey about the smell of cake batter. I worked patiently to achieve the desired “fluff”, scraping the side of the large mixing bowl with a rubber spatula, and using my finger to wipe away the sugary flecks of butter that jumped to the rim.






6. Reduce speed to low and add flour and cocoa mixtures alternately in batches, beginning and ending with flour mixture (batter may look curdled).

Adding the dry ingredients is always a tricky part. My mixer is proportionately miniature compared to my large mixing bowl, which caused clouds of flour to burst from the bowl like puffs of smoke. I soon became covered in a layer of white powder, my forearms pale from the dust that settled on every surface in my kitchen.
The breeze from the window stirred the sweet smells of butter and chocolate with the sound of a church choir practicing down the street.

7. Divide batter between cake pans, smoothing tops. Bake until a wooden pick or skewer comes out clean and edges of cake begin to pull away from sides of pans, 25 to 35 minutes total.

As the smooth chocolatey batter ribboned down into the cake pans, my mind drifted to wondering what birthday wish Rob might make as he blew out his candles.

8. Remove cake from oven, cool in pan on rack for 10 minutes. Remove from pan, cool on rack completely. Cool layers in pans on racks 10 minutes, then invert onto racks, removing wax paper, and cool completely.

The poster child of optimism, I slid the first cake pan into the oven (it's only big enough to hold one pan at a time), and set the timer for 25 minutes. I quickly washed the dirty bowls and spoons, and prepared to begin making the somewhat tricky buttercream frosting. This frosting, I hoped, would elevate the cake from yummy to scrumptious.


Buttercream Cake Frosting

4 large egg whites at room temperature for 30 minutes
Rounded 1/4 teaspoon salt
2/3 cup water
1 1/3 cups plus 2 tablespoons sugar
4 sticks (2 cups) unsalted butter, cut into tablespoon pieces and softened
2 teaspoons vanilla
fire-proof suit
humility

Special equipment: a candy thermometer, cat-like dexterity and flexibility

1. Combine whites and salt in a very large bowl.

Separating egg whites and yolks can be a meditative practice. The yolk is firm and independent, but is kept so only by the salivic white that swaddles it in the shell. The yolk will slip away easily from the white, but the white clings stubbornly, unwilling to let go of its companion.
But if the yolk skips across the jagged edge of broken eggshell, its strength is lost with its binding surface tension. It slips freely and willingly into the white, stretching out thin yellow fingers of impurity.
Just one drop of egg yolk will spoil a bowl of egg whites.

2. Stir together water and 1 1/3 cups sugar in a 3- to 4-quart heavy saucepan until sugar is dissolved, then bring to a boil over moderate heat, without stirring, brushing any sugar crystals down side of pan with a pastry brush dipped in water.

My kitchen is tricky. There are several things which I do not have: #1 enough space to cook, #2 a long enough cord on my electric mixer, and #3 a 3-to 4-quart heavy saucepan. This proved to be an unfortunate, if not tragic combination of deficits.

3. When syrup reaches a boil, start beating egg whites with an electric mixer at medium-high speed until frothy, then gradually add remaining 2 tablespoons sugar and beat at medium speed until whites just hold soft peaks. (Do not beat again until sugar syrup is ready.)

Egg whites are like some kind of culinary magic; from a slimy goop they rise up in small pillows of foam.

4. Meanwhile, put thermometer into sugar syrup and continue boiling until syrup registers 238 to 242°F. Immediately remove from heat and, with mixer at high speed, slowly pour hot syrup in a thin stream down side of bowl into whites, beating constantly. Beat, scraping down side of bowl with a rubber spatula, until meringue is cool to the touch, about 10 minutes in a standing mixer or 15 with a handheld. (It is important that meringue is properly cooled before proceeding.)

I was poised like a warrior ready for battle: in my right hand, I held the mixer, beating the egg whites on high. In my left hand, I positioned the candy thermometer in the sugar syrup, tipping the irregular, cheaply made pan so enough syrup would coat the thermometer to register a temperature.
The line on the thermometer climbed.
The egg whites began to peak.
I perspired.
And then it hit 238º.
Quickly, I pulled the thermometer from the pan, and removed the mixture from the heat. Moving the pan to the edge of the bowl of egg whites, something altogether unexpected happened: the handle of the pan snapped off. A tidal wave of boiling hot, sticky sugar water slopped over the edge of the pan as it tumbled onto the counter, spattering a shower of scalding syrup on everything, and instantly cooling into little blobs of hard candy. Desperate not to lose everything, I grabbed a dishtowel, and using it as a potholder, plucked the pan from the sink, trying to salvage the small bit of syrup that was already beginning to harden to the side of the pan.
But my efforts were futile, earning me only a bowl of deflating egg whites crusted with syrup candy, and second-degree burns on my fingers.

I suppose the failure of the Buttercream Frosting wasn't so much of a big deal. As it turns out, I wouldn't have had anything to put it on anyway. After baking my cake for 45 minutes in my “oven,” the result was a blackened disk smelling of campfire, with a gooey, liquid center. I nibbled at the edges of the cake, and tasted the bitter-sweet flavor of honest effort and failure.

Later that night, I carefully positioned five birthday candles in a pint of Haagen Dazs ice cream. As we droned out the Happy Birthday Song, I presented the pint to Rob, whose face glowed with birthday joy in the spotlight of the flames.
I had spent the entire afternoon in the kitchen, trying to make the perfect birthday cake for Rob. All I wanted was for him to have a happy birthday.
But what is it that makes us happy? Is it a birthday cake on our birthday? Is it the satisfaction of success? Is it the ability to make something beautiful?

I was left to wonder this, and in that moment looked up to see Rob pause in contemplation of birthday wishes. Lips pursed and ready to blow, I wouldn't have known he was smiling, but for the reflection of merriment in his eyes. And then with the release of a wish, the candles turned from fire to smoke, filling the room with birthday candle smell and sending us all into the darkness and memories of birthdays past.

*Try it for yourself: www.epicurious.com/recipes/recipe_views/views/109040

Sometimes What We Want and What Actually Happens Aren't The Same Thing

The sound of a gun firing, for many people, is a sound of alarm, fear, perhaps even terror. The pulse quickens. The brow beads with sweat. The knees bend slightly as the shoulders curl up to the ears; a protective stance is assumed. Biologists have given a simple term for this reaction, known as the "fight or flight" instinct. Everyone experienced it at one time or another, perhaps after stepping on a rattlesnake or witnessing a fuel pump explode. Or hearing a gun fire.
I am no different.
When I was first approached several weeks ago by the Sports Day steering committee and asked if I would participate in the relay race, I couldn't think of a reason to say no.
The petite student whose job it was to recruit participants stood before me, clutching her blue clipboard before her chest like a shield of armor. She had been conferencing for the past five minutes with the other English teachers, trying to perfect her pronunciation of the question, "Would you please run in a relay race for Sports Day?" (too many R's).
"Well, I have to tell you, I'm not very fast, but I'll try my best." She gave my long and gangly legs a doubtful glance. Standing, she came up to just above my head- as I sat at my desk chair. I could see what she was thinking: "This person is a giant. Even if she is slow by Gaijin standards, she's gonna kick serious ass on sports day."
Sports Day is a bizarre Japanese tradition, one which every school in the nation celebrates. For one day each semester, classes are cancelled and students apply the passion they usually devote to algebra and history to more physical activities, such as tug-of-war and choreographed dances. Teachers, of course, are in attendance, but only participate in the last event of the day: the relay race.
The morning of Sports Day, I was feeling in high spirits as I sat in the observation tent with the other teachers. Everyone was looking smart in their color-coordinated track suits and sneakers, and I was enjoying a lecture on the history and significance of Sports Day.
"So, basically, today is just fun and games- literally? I mean, this isn't a real competition; I think that's fantastic!" Why can't Americans be more like the Japanese on this front? I've never cared for competative sport.
"Oh, no, Sarah-sensei," my friend Arisaka-sensei corrected me, "it is all just for fun EXCEPT the relay race. That is very serious. The fastest runners from the school are chosen to represent seven teams, and the eighth team is the Teachers. It is the finale of the Sports Day every year, and the runners have worked hard to prepare for the race."
Oh.
I flipped to the page listing the other runners on the Teacher's team. "Which teachers are running with me? Are you running?" Arisaka-sensei shook her head.
"No, all of your teammates are male teachers. And actually, you are running in place of the principal, who is too old to run. So please, Sarah-sensei, do your best job and run fast." Ok, no problem. I can beat a bunch of scrawny high schoolers, right? "And Sarah-sensei, one more thing: the Teachers win every year. They have never lost. Good luck!"
It was the last part that was running the track of my mind as I lined up with the other runners later that afternoon.
The Teachers win every year. Why should this year be any different?
I took my place, twelfth in a line of fourteen.

The gun fired. My reaction was fight.

I jumped into the air, screaming wildly for the incredible lead my teammate made on the girls in the first leg of the race. The baton was passed. The Teachers gained even more ground. We were teaching the students a new kind of lesson.
And then it was my turn. I stood in place on the track, arm outstretched behind me as I cheered on my teammate with the baton. I started to run as he entered the passing-zone, and as my fingers curled around the bright plastic tube, a burst of adrenaline hit my body.

My reaction was flight.

I could tell you the story of how I flew through the air, like a bat out of Hell. How my Gaijin speed was so incredible, so unlike anything the Japanese public had ever seen before that small children cried in awe and grown men swore aloud to the superhuman miracle they were witnessing.
I could tell you a story like that, but it wouldn't be true. What really happened was more like this:
I'm running as fast as I can, and running in first place, so I'm feeling pretty hot. I can hear the cheers of the students lining the track, but am moving too fast to see their faces.
And then I see something unexpected: a blur of a shape emerges in my right field of vision then passes before me. I think I am hallucinating from the ecstasy of being a champion, but then I see a similar shape appear to my left. And then another on my right. And another, and another, and another, and another. That's when the shapes solidify and my mind finally grasps the cold horror of my situation: I have just been passed by seven of my students. I realize this as I'm completing my leg of the race- a half-track's length- and am preparing to had the baton to my teammate. As I do so, I catch the steely-eyed grimace of the poor math teacher who must run at the heels of his pupils. It is the face of malice and misery.
It is a face I saw thirteen times over again as I met with all the team Teachers at the end of the race. What started out as a near-sure victory for our team ended in a seventh-place finish. The team who placed eight fell during a pass-off.

At the sound of a gun firing, we naturally react. Some of us prepare to defend ourselves. Some of us prepare to flee. The trauma of Sports Day has suggested to me a third possibility: diplomatic negotiation. When Sports Day comes around again this spring, I know what to do. "Me, run in a relay race? Why, of course I will, but you know my philosophy on teachers beating students. We really should let them win. Shouldn't everyone have a share in the victory?"

*photos by Romain Jourdan

Ebisu's Finest

When I told Hotta-sensei that I was going to Tokyo by myself on Saturday, he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his desk chair next to me. "And you plan to make this trip all alone? You are far braver than me," it sounded like a compliment, but I knew it was back-handed. What kind of fool goes to Tokyo all alone for the day? And doesn't know how to speak or read Japanese?
Romain had a similar reaction later that evening, though he was much kinder. Why would anyone want to go to Tokyo alone? What kind of fun is that? But Romain also provided a solution.
"You plan to go to Ebisu? I have a great friend who lives very near to there. Let me have him show you around." Before I could object (actually while I was objecting), Romain pulled out his katai and was already on the phone with Nory. Speaking French. "Non, non, elle est américaine. Elle voudrait visiter le musée de bière, et peut-être le parc aussi bien....” Oh, lord. I hate being a burden to people. As I was burying my face in my hands I heard Romain stop talking. I looked up to see him holding out his katai to me, his eyebrows arched in an encouraging question, "would you like to speak with him?"
"He's French?"” my French speaking ability is embarrassing...
"No, Japanese. But he speaks English.” Ok, here we go.
"Hello?"
"Hey, this is Nory. Is this Sarah?" The voice on the other end of the line surprised me. No accent. Perfect pronunciation. He sounded, well, American.
And he is, in a way, I found out the next day after meeting him at the train station in Ebisu. Despite Hotta-sensei's concens, I navigated my way without difficulty on the JR train system from Utsunomiya to Tokyo, changing at the massive Shinjuku station to the Yamanote Line, which took me to the Ebisu district. I got into Ebisu right at 12:30, just in time for lunch.
Nory took me to a place not so far from the station, a small Bobo cafe on the second floor of a building, overlooking the narrow street. We settled down on a cool leather sofa near the window, ordered lunch, and sipped our small glasses of water. Lunch was nice.

A SYNOPSIS:

First Name: Nory
Last Name: ?
Age: 25
Nationality: Japanese
Place of Birth: Texas
Astrological Sign: Libra
Profession: Salaryman: Marketing Consultant (or something like this) for a major advertising firm
Lanuages Spoken: Japanese, English, French
Lived Abroad: In America from birth until age 10; In Paris while earning his M.B.A.
Works: Until midnight 5 days a week (and sometimes Saturday, too)
Would like to visit: Africa, France, Los Angeles
Method of transport: Foot, Train, Folding bicycle
You'’d never guess it, but: He's a hip-hop dancer. Seriously.

What I had expected to be an awkward afternoon between two (nearly) complete strangers instead ended up being, well, actually really nice. After lunch, we made our way to Sopporo's Yebisu Museum and brewery. I had read about the museum in my Tokyo guidebook, and was looking forward to the visit. We were greeted at the entrance by a pair of pretty girls in cute Yebisu beer dresses handing out free plastic cups of beer. (Unfortunately) the exhibits ended up all being in Japanese, but (fortunately) Nory translated the more interesting pieces for me. Happily, my main interest in the museum, the tasting room, didn’t require translation. We purchased tickets from a vending machine (in classic Japanese style), which we presented to the bartenders to receive sampler trays of beer.
There were four beers offered: A German Weiss, the standard gold-labeled Yebisu Pilsner, a fruity English Ale, and a slightly sweet and smokey Black Beer. All were delicious and generously portioned, so that by the time we left the tasting room, we were both a bit more relaxed and talkative.
Nory had to go to work (on a Saturday afternoon!), but helped me find the Tokyo Metropolitan Museum of Photography before he said goodbye. I thanked him for taking time to show me around, and was genuinely sorry to have to part so soon.
The photography museum was one to be enjoyed alone, though. I visited the Photojournalism in Context Since 1955 show, and left the museum feeling overwhelmed by the collection of gruesome war photos I had seen. I shuffled my way to the exit right as the museum was closing at six and the sun was sinking between the buildings to the West.

The sun setting in the city can be quite stunning, reflecting off the mirrored glass and steel skyscrapers, casting long shadows into the streets, and making everything glow golden. As the sun sinks lower, the colors grow warmer and warmer, first like the yellow lines pained along the train platform, then turning to the amber hue of Yebisu's Finest, and eventually melting like butter into the night. It's enough to make any American girl in Tokyo smile like a fool on the street, even if passersby give funny looks. Even if she is all alone. And maybe even because of it.