Dojyou

I encountered them swimming in a frenzy in a green tupperware bowl on the floor of Naomi's kitchen. Naomi is my Japanese sister. Her son, upon noticing the little eels, promptly shoved his hands into the water and began trying to scoop them up. Two fell onto the floor, at which I carefully helped one of them back into the bowl, watching it struggle and writhe in my fingers, worried about applying too much pressure and killing or injuring it. Finally getting it back to its home. This is how I thought of a green bowl on the floor. Home.

Her father later told me how they are cooked. I don't speak the language too well, and so gestures here were very important. They are placed in a pot with a little water and tofu, swimming around as the fire is made to bring the water to a slow boil. As they begin to die, the eels try to escape the heat and burrow into the block of tofu, breaking it up and stirring the nabe. Their desperate attempts at survival a vital role in the making of the soup. This is what I understood from his gestures and piecemeal of words I could catch and hang onto.







I considered which one I had helped back into the bowl. Had I done it any favors? Had I eaten it? Did Naomi hold it up for a photo with her chopsticks?






Dessert was cow poo. But that's another thing entirely.