As I bike my son to kindergarten, we pass a small wooden shop blowing out a fairly strong aroma with a fan.
“Daddy, what’s that smell?” my son asks.
I don’t respond as I’m too busy wondering about that myself.
After I drop him off and start on my way back, I pass by again, noticing that the sliding door sits open already. I take the invitation, park my bike, and work up the courage to use my limited Japanese.
I pop my head inside, where an older woman behind the counter beckons me, wearing a white apron and a hat. In front of her, I see a glass case with two rows of trays piled high with glistening skinny brown pieces each about a centimeter long. As I try to figure out what I’m looking at, I ask, “What do you sell here?”
“Would you like to taste and see?” she asks, opening the back of the case and grabbing one of the little brown sticky things with chopsticks.
I slowly bring it to my mouth and take a bite. It’s crunchy. And salty. And sweet. And . . . well, I’m not sure how else to describe it.
I look up to find the woman watching me expectantly. Aware of the puzzled look on my face, I blurt out, “Oishii! Delicious! What is it?”
She gives me a look that seems to ask, You really don’t know? Then she answers simply, “tsukudani.”
The name takes a minute to register: tsukudani. I live in Tsukuda. “Is it related to this place here?” I ask, gesturing to the island surrounding us in the heart of Tokyo.
The woman answers, but, unfortunately, I don’t understand most of it. Embarrassed I have taken up so much of her time, I thank her and buy a small box. I head home and open my computer to see what I can find out online.
Apparently, the fishermen in Tsukuda invented a new way to preserve seafood so it would keep when they couldn’t go fishing. They simmered it in soy sauce and mirin and called it tsukudani, which literally means “Tsukuda simmered.” These fishermen originally came from the city of Osaka in the 17th century, where they lived on an island called Tsukuda. At one point, the famous shogun Ieyasu Tokugawa was fleeing from enemies, and these fishermen helped him and his men escape by giving them boats and food. Later when Tokugawa united Japan and established Edo (Tokyo) as the new capital, he invited these fishermen and their families to move to Tokyo to provide fish for his castle. Tokugawa built up an island in the mouth of the river and named it Tsukuda after their home in Osaka. I find out too that the connection continues to this day. Students at Tsukuda Elementary in Tokyo, where my son goes to school, meet up with students from Tsukuda Elementary in Osaka on field trips every couple of years.
Later that day, I pass the store again to pick up my son and stop for a minute to study the sign out front. It reads “Tenyasu” with the character for “heaven” and the character for “peace” — Heavenly Peace. I think about this as I smell the simmering taking place in front of me. Seafood normally doesn’t last a day without refrigeration, but through simmering it can last an entire month. The simmering breaks down the fish but also preserves it and infuses its delicious flavor, bringing health and vitality to a world that desperately needs both. The simmering prepares the fish for the process of decay in this world.
Simmering shows the way we can be prepared for suffering. When we ‘simmer’ in the gospel, we prepare ourselves for the difficulties of this world. When our minds and hearts are ‘steeped’ for long periods in Christ’s sacrifice for us, we absorb his vitality and endurance and love.
“We will be changed,” Paul writes in his letter to the Corinthians, “For the perishable must clothe itself with the imperishable, and the mortal with immortality” (1 Corinthians 15:52–53). To be clothed with the “imperishable” in this world, we need to be simmered. We need to be simmered by the cross, and we need to be simmered in the gospel. The only thing protecting us from the rot and stench of death is this preservation in the grace of God.
I hope to become a regular customer of this tiny old shop, because through it I can literally experience a taste of “heavenly peace.” When friends come to my house, I can serve them tsukudani as a way to celebrate together the traditions of this town and taste the gospel of Christ. And every time I eat, it makes me long for more.
Excerpt from "A Taste of Grace" by Roger W. Lowther