separating the chaff from the rice: organic farming in Japan

Shoes off, pants rolled up and emptied plastic soil bags tied securely around our waists we plunged eagerly into the deep end of our friend Kazu’s organic rice field on a recent Saturday to help weed this year’s crop. It was one of the first genuinely hot days of the year so it was with eager feet that we slipped our naked toes into the cool mud. We finished our first sweep in about 20 minutes, each of us responsible for an area that matched the span of our arms, which was for me about 4 rows, and for Sune and Kazu about 5.

When you stand on the edge of a rice field with the task of removing the rice-like weeds from the weed-like rice, the job can seem fairly intimidating. At first glance, it was either all weeds or all rice. But as waded patiently through row after row of rice I started to notice the small details that distinguished a nourishing grain from a strangling weed. You’d never think that a rice paddy would have a deep and shallow end, but it does… especially the paddies that are closer to the ocean. Kazu explained that the side of the paddy furthest from the sea was more shallow because as the typhoon washed from the ocean to the land the winds  re-deposited the soil in the rice paddy like a great wave washing over the field. We found that weeds grew in neither the deep nor the shallow end, but it was the sloping middle that was rife with green onion-like weeds. As our eyes became adjusted to the swift task of deciphering what was rice and what was not, we started sweeping each row in 10 minutes. 

It took the three of us three hours to finish one field. Our backs were broken and my arms were red and itchy from brushing up against the blades of rice. We walked 2 kilometers in one field of weeding. This is Kazu’s seventh year of growing organic rice, but only his second year where the crop seems to be successful. It’s been a long process of trial and error, an endeavor his father usually think is worthless until he sees what people in Tokyo will pay for high quality organic rice from Niigata prefecture, where the champagne of rice in Japan is grown. Six years ago Kazu said he could see more weeds than rice when he looked out over the field, and he could measure the task of weeding in days not hours. But after learning to rotate his fields, flood his organic fields even in winter and restrain from cultivating the soil in the Spring, his organic crop now looks quite healthy. 

Not all of Kazu’s paddies are organic, it’s something he’s easing into and hopes to spread to more farmers in his village. But he is mindful of the long-term effects of fertilizers, so he keeps his usage to a minimum. During a rest between rows we looked over at his neighbor’s field where the rice looked uncommonly green, thick and at least 2 inches taller than Kazu’s organic rice. “Too much nitrogen,” said Kazu, “it’s not good, the rice will fall start to bend before harvest.” He said his neighbor doesn’t care about quality, it’s quantity that matters to him. His over-fertilized crop will have a good yield perhaps, but too much nitrogen not only makes the rice grow too fast, Kazu thinks it also gives the rice a bad taste and smell. Strangely, the Japanese Rice co-op will pay the same amount for Kazu’s carefully tended organic crop as they will for his neighbor’s steroid rice because the co-op pays according to location, regardless of organic. This incentive-lacking scheme from the co-op factors greatly into why Kazu sells his rice directly to his customers, cutting out the mega co-op.

The process of moving slowly through the rice, making small waves stretch out before each shin is calming, almost meditative. Swooping down for each weed, bending and folding for hours is backbreaking work, and it humbles me to see the majority of elderly rural farmers who are permanently bent in rice-tending position. It’s satisfying to finish our work at the end of the day and scrub the mud off our toes in the refreshingly cold water the trickles down the canal from Lake Oike.  It’s even more satisfying to be “paid” by Kazu’s family with box-fulls of organic vegetables from their family garden.

In just these few short months I’ve learned so much from Kazu about modern farming, and it frustrates me that most young people don’t appreciate what a good life an innovative farmer in Japan can lead. But just as we were finishing our last row of weeding, and just as my frustration over the governments failure to recognize Kazu’s organic rice crop was building, we stopped suddenly and were instructed to step out of line and walk in wide circles around two blue poles stuck in the field. These poles were for testing, from the government actually. Kazu says they’re interested in why organic rice is better, “they don’t know why,” he says, “but they’re curious.”

 

rice stretching out in front of Yone Yama (rice mountain)

梅雨: season of fine rain

During a recent weekend visit with Peter and Caitlin we played in the hills and terraced rice paddies of Yoshikawa and Yasuzuka wards. After eating homemade noodles and tempura at a local mountain restaurant we set up an outdoor tea session next to the river in Yasuzuka. With grass leading down to the river banks and granite tables and stools perfectly supporting our stove and tea cups we couldn’t have found a better tea spot! Other than appeasing the waves of excited students who noticed Sune-Sensei drinking tea next to their river, we spent a relaxing afternoon enjoying the sweet, buttery brew of shin-cha 新茶, or new tea—leaves picked at the beginning of the tea season (late April to mid-June). Afterwards we wandered on the edge of rainstorm around some high mountain rice terraces and ate strawberries we found growing on the edge of the paddies. After ending the day with a proper soak in a local mountain hot spring we were thoroughly relaxed and happy to fall asleep by 9pm!

 

There is so much to be appreciated and explored in this season where Spring mingles with Summer. Known by many names, the one I prefer is tsuyu 梅雨, the season of fine rain in Japan. While there are some storms, the season is predominated by misty days saturating the rice, the leaves, the rivers and the earth with the sweet smell of rain. This is the perfect season for tea, and while my knowledge of Japanese tea is middling to poor in comparison to my relationship with Chinese tea, I’m still eager to appreciate the tea culture here to the fullest of my ability!

All true tea is derived from the camellia sinensis plant which is believed to have originated in the mountains between the Chinese province of Yunnan and Burma. To this day tea trees (some that are believed to be 2,000 years old) grow wild and tall in this part of the world. What creates variety in tea is related to climate and the way in which tea is processed once it is picked. The simplest, lightest teas undergo minimal processing, while all oolong and black teas receive at least a partial fermentation process. The variety and scale of Chinese tea is reflected in the geography of China’s own diverse landscape. A dark, earthy pu’er cha from the wild tea mountains of southern Yunnan tastes like an entirely different beverage than a sweet, buttery, long jing cha from the properly manicured tea terraces of Hangzhou. 

I am finding that this geographic analogy applies to Japan as well, for it seems that its not in the variety but in the subtle differences that one can appreciate the breadth of Japanese tea. The majority, if not all of the tea grown in Japan, is green tea. And in these early months of rain that prelude the heat of summer it is my opinion that shin-cha 新茶 is the tea of choice.

We’re nearing the end of shin-cha season, but you can still order some fresh, new leaves to try from ito-en (and probably some other sites that I don’t know about).

Shin-cha is so delicate that it should be brewed in warm, not hot water. To be extra safe  I often rinse my leaves in cold water first and leave them in a small pool of cold water before adding the warm water. One of my favorite ways to enjoy this tea is to steep it in chilled water in the refrigerator overnight. Cold brewing tea brings out all the delicious flavors without any bitterness that can arise from accidentally scorching the leaves. 

Steep the tea one or two times and enjoy it in a clear glass so that you can appreciate it’s bright, green color. It’s like drinking the rainy season!

a rice growing temple in Yoshikawa ward

the edge of a rice field in upper Yasuzuka ward

Lindsay and Sune enjoying some rice paddy exploration

terraced rice paddy in Yasuzuka ward

our daily bread

This is a topic so close to me that I’m not sure I can offer the proper perspective on it, but after watching a recent podcast of Louise Fresco speaking about feeding the whole world  (on TED TV), I was inspired to not only share this 20 minute video with other people, but I want to explore the topic of daily bread and it’s relationship to industrial farming as I’ve observed from this corner of Japan.

At the end of her speech, Louise Fresco shares this insight from Mahatma Ghandi, “To those who have to go without two meals a day, God can only appear as bread.”

The concept that Fresco explores is our relationship to the world’s most common staple: bread. Where do we get our bread? Have we lost touch with making our own bread? Is bread healthy? Do we respect our daily bread? It is through bread that Fresco draws our attention to the greater global discussion about our industrial food system—as we seek local, organic food in our idealized food utopia are we throwing the baby out with the bath water in wholly demonizing modern farming techniques? 

The linchpin in this increasingly popular movement for a “sustainable” food system is the need to also offer a living wage and a good life to the world’s farmers. Today we are growing more food for more people than ever before, but the number of farmers responsible for our daily bread is shockingly low. Even in a culturally agrarian society such as Japan, it is a mere 5% of the population that grows the food for this entire country. That’s a 10% decrease since the end of WWII (and not coincidentally the introduction of Western Industrial food imports). This is a frightening trend for our farming community of Joetsu. But the situation in the United States is even more dire, where 1% of the population grows all the food for our country. 

It seems that we must seek a balance. A balance between a food system that offers nourishing, simple food that does not bring unnecessary damage to our environment and our health, while also offering a modern and yes, reasonably industrial method for the world’s farmers who seek a sustainable lifestyle for themselves and their families.

This is, I hope, an introduction to the current research I am doing on modern farming in Japan. There are lessons to be learned and conversations to be had between ourselves and our communities about what a truly sustainable food system looks like, one that nourishes both sides of the the equation between growing food and consuming it. 

In the meantime, please follow the link above if you are interested in Louise Fresco’s 20 minute presentation about bread and our relationship to food. Also, in the spirit of our daily bread, I thought I would offer our easy recipe for the bread that we eat (almost) every day here in Japan, made by Sune in an electric rice-cooker (because there is a dearth of ovens in Japan). Enjoy!

Japanese Bread

3/4 cup rice flour (this is what makes this loaf “Japanese,” we’ve also used soba, a.k.a buckwheat here.)

1/4 cup whole wheat flour

1 1/2 cups regular white flour

1 tablespoon yeast

180ml warm water

1 teaspoon of sugar

2 teaspoons salt

1 tablespoon margarine (or butter)

40ml of soymilk (milk, or other dairy alternative)

1 tablespoon sesame seeds (we use black for a nice color contrast)

1.) mix the yeast with 180ml of warm (not hot!) water (our water is exactly 39 degrees C) and 1 teaspoon of sugar in a mixing bowl. Allow to sit for 10 minutes

2.) while the yeast is resting, mix the salt, all three types of flour, and sesame seeds in a separate bowl.

3.) fold the mixed dry ingredients into the yeast, stirring as you go. As you fold, add a tablespoon of margarine (or butter) as well as 40ml of soymilk (milk, or other dairy alternatives). Mix until you get a nice, smooth, doughy consistency. Because rice flour sometimes absorbs more moisture than wheat flour, you may need to adjust your liquid/dry proportions. 

4.) knead for 5-10 minutes, stretching the surface of the dough by picking it up and throwing it down onto a cutting board or counter top.

5.) let it rise in the bowl, covered, until it doubles in size (about 2 hours)

6.) knead for another 2-3 minutes, and then let it rest in the rice cooker. Sune turns on the rice cooker at this point for 2-4 minutes, allowing it to get warm and provide a happy rising condition for the dough.

7.) as the dough starts to rise after 30 minutes, turn the rice cooker back on at the normal “white rice” setting. the rice machine will turn itself off after about 40 minutes, turn it back on for another cycle. After two cycles, take out your loaf and flip it over, returning it for another 2 cycles on the opposite side. Depending on the rice cooker, you might need additional cycles. What’s important is that you cook it 2 cycles on the first side, while the crust is forming, otherwise, if you flip too soon it will crush the loaf and flatten the bread.

*When you get the hang of this method, the result will be a nice, roundish boule-type-of-loaf, perfectly consumed in 1 day! What’s best is that from start to finish (rising and cooking time included) this loaf only takes 5 hours because you add just that bit of sugar to the yeast at the beginning!

 

 

bread by Sune

山菜: harvesting mountain vegetables

San sai (山菜) are a very important part of the Japanese diet, especially in mountainous areas like Joetsu. Actually, we  live in a unique spot because we benefit from the two fresh, nutritional resources for Japanese people—vegetables from the mountains and vegetables from the sea. But today’s article is dedicated to mountain vegetables, known in Japan as san sai.

In the early Spring you can’t drive  a hundred meters into the mountains and foothills without seeing cars pulled over on the side of road with their occupants hidden in the trees picking fresh (and free!) mountain vegetables. Harvesting mountain vegetables is like a national past-time in Japan, and one of the best ways that I can think of to celebrate early Spring! People have their secret spots where they can spend an entire afternoon picking vegetables to consume fresh, pickled or dried. If you go to pick mountain vegetables you better bring a picnic because it’s a great way to spend time with friends, dip your feet in a cold mountain stream and kick back under a mountain cherry tree (a variety that blooms almost a month after it’s city counterparts). 

I won’t pretend to be an expert on harvesting mountain vegetables, I just really like to eat them. Popular in Japan, especially in the higher mountain regions where it’s too cold to grow rice, is a dish called san sai soba. This dish is hearty, simple and rustic Japanese cuisine at it’s best. In this dish, soba noodles (made from buckwheat) are covered in steaming hot simple broth and then topped with slightly pickled mountain vegetables including wild mushrooms, fiddleheads, mountain yams and other wild green plants. 

On Showa Day, a national holiday in early May commemorating the the reign of Emperor Hirohito, we headed to the slopes of Mt. Arai and collected fresh fiddleheads (warabi 蕨 in Japanese) with our friend, Ike. Fiddleheads are the unfurled frond of fern and can be found at the base of most fern plants. We had a pretty nice time discovering fiddlehead patches, admiring the mountain cherry blossoms and at the end of the day sticking our feet into a shockingly cold, rushing stream.

Fiddleheads can be pickled, boiled, dried and (my favorite) stir-fried. If you find yourself with some fresh fiddleheads I think that eating them the simple and flash-fried way is best.

All you need is: garlic, olive oil and salt.

To stir-fry fiddle heads: after boiling the fiddleheads for 10 minutes, then removing and drying them, heat the olive oil in the pan and add the boiled and dried fiddleheads to the hot oil. I like to cook these on high heat for a short amount of time. When the fiddleheads are slightly tender, add chopped garlic (as much or as little as you like) and sprinkle with a bit of sea salt. The fiddle heads will close up nice and tight when exposed to heat, so once they’re tight and seared, take them off the heat and eat as soon as possible (preferably with brown rice or soba noodles!). It should be noted that some fiddleheads cannot be eaten, and you are best to stay close to the ostrich fern variety. Make sure you cook them thoroughly to be sure you are removing any possible toxins. If you’re picking fiddleheads yourself and not buying them from a farmers market, be sure to go picking with an expert who knows how to identify the safe ones to eat!

Enjoy!

Taue: hand-planting rice

As I’ve mentioned before, we teach amidst the rice fields to the children of rice farmers. So when my 6th period class with the 5th graders at Suwa Elementary was cancelled today because the students had to plant rice (which is clearly more important than learning English) I quickly jumped at the chance to join them instead of sitting in the teachers room reading Bulgakov. After my 5th period class I raced to the changing room, changed into my “outdoor clothes” and took a short ride with my vice principal to the field where the 5th graders were planting their rice.

What they were planting was “sweet rice,” which is not actually sweet, but it’s the rice used to make sweet rice treats and is different than regular eating rice (just as Sake rice, used for making rice wine, is different than both sweet and regular rice). No longer than 3 minutes after I jumped out of the vice principals car was I shin deep in mud pulling a hexagonal cylinder over the rice paddy with another student to create a grid pattern over the field as a guide for planting by hand. Encouraged by my students and the muttering of “eigo-sensei! sugoi!” from the farmers and principal, I worked as hard as I could and smiled from ear to ear. 

When the plotting was done we each took a handful of rice sod and set to work, each of us responsible for 3 to 4 rows.

Hand planting goes like this:

1. set your plot with the hexagonal cylinder, known as a waku, to make a chessboard-like pattern.

2. get a clump of rice in hand, bend over, and start some seriously back breaking work: take 3 to 4 seedlings at a time and plop them into the square corner of the meeting point between each bisected line (remember, the chess board). repeat.

It’s fairly simple, and every time you we ran out of rice to plant we simply raised our heads and one of the mother-farmers would throw us a new chunk. For me, they very gently threw the chunks. For the kids… it wad a muddier affair.

In the Autumn this class will return to the paddy to harvest, thresh and pound their rice into mochi (a delicious pounded rice Japanese treat).

It was an afternoon well spent, much better than English class in my opinion. And the best part was when we were done we all washed off in the bitingly cold stream together and then gathered back next to the rice paddy to notice that the mud had settled and the water had risen to reveal the footprints of 15 people who planted rice together one warm Spring afternoon.