Ode to Mochi
O’ mochi, my favorite food. I love your endless squish and the way you fit into the palm of my hand. I sink my teeth into your body, feeling the slightest resistance. You make me feel like a carnivore who has caught a rabbit and will now eat its heart. I could eat you in one large bite but I choose to savor you chew by chew. O’ tiny organ, you are sweet and powdered with white. You bleed red bean into my mouth, or green tea, or black sesame. When my parents took my sister and I to Japan, we saw you born on the streets of Tokyo in giant barrels. You are created in a Big Bang–the smack and pound of a giant, long hammer called a kine. Two strong men pound the rice dough over and over, flip it, pound more and more, and knead it until it is fluffy. One man pounds, the other kneads, and they get faster and faster. It is a partnership of intense trust. Then, you are shaped into little flat balls filled with any flavoring you could imagine, and transported directly into my mouth. Chomp!
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