While incarcerated at Rohwer, my mother’s family ordered a hot plate from the Sears and Roebuck catalog. My grandfather cooked often for his eight daughters, resulting in a blown fuse in their barrack. “Must be the Otoshi’s again!”
What it must have meant to my grandparents to prepare recipes from their parents and grandparents for their children. To not eat mass-produced food each day. To eat with your family in an intimate setting rather than a large chaotic mess hall. To have some control and power over daily activities.
When my mother Keiko passed away, I inherited her cookbooks. I especially treasure her 1965 West Los Angeles Japanese American Citizens League’s cookbook, East-West Flavors. Spattered with shoyu and cooking oil, the recipes tell which were well loved and prepared often— buta tofu, kinpira gobo, teriyaki beef. There was also spaghetti, beef stroganoff, and tamale pie. Penciled notes in my mother’s handwriting are bittersweet, reminding me of her and how deeply I miss her.
My teenage daughters often ask me to make “Kei-Kei’s” sukiyaki from this cookbook. They walk in the kitchen, and their eyes brighten, “Mom, that smells so good!” After devouring its contents and unwilling to waste any of the flavors, they pour the fragrant broth over white rice. This warms me to know they value this simple dish and its connection to their grandmother.
“Food…is more than just sustenance,” says Chef Sugiyama in Densho’s Campu podcast. “It’s a vehicle for culture—one that persists even after we’ve forgotten things like language. It’s a way to delight in the world around us, engage our senses, connect with other people. It’s how we tell someone we love them. It’s the lessons we pass down between generations—and the ones we don’t.”
