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“Brimming with Hope”
Recipes & Stories from Japan’s Tohoku
Photography by Aya Brackett
Ten Speed Press
What’s in a Name?
Tasting Tradition: Recipes and Culinary Tales from the Tohoku
Pressed Rice “Sandwiches”
The Language of Food
Salmon Rice Topped with Red
Caviar (Harako Meshi)
Fried Tōfu and Mountain
Vegetable Pilaf (Michinoku
Kokeshi Bentō) v
Ordinary Miso Soup (Teiban no
Miso Shiru) v
Pinched-Noodle Soup with Pork
Scaling up for a Small Crowd
Pot (Kaki no Doté Nabé)
Home, Hearth, and Hot Pots
Good to the Last Drop: Ojiya
Prepping Shucked Oysters for Hot
Celebration Hot Pot (Tsuyuji,
Kozuyu, Zaku Zaku-Jiru) v
Straw-Wrapped, BrineSimmered Tōfu (Tsuto Tōfu)
Rice Straw (Wara)
Banana Leaves and Corn Husks
Fish Sausage Patties (Sasa
Miso-Seared Scallops (Hotaté no
Squid Jerky and Carrot Strips
An Americanized Taste of the
A Vegan Taste of the Tohoku v
Chrysanthemum and Énoki
Mushroom Salad (Kiku-Bana
to Énokidaké no Nihai-zu) v
Squash Blossom and Enoki
Leaves (Shiso Maki) v
Osechi (A Feast for the New Year
Variation on a Theme: Kelp-Alone
Scrolls (Mini Kobu Maki) v
Foxy Rolls (Kitsuné Maki)
Persimmon Stuffed with Fall
Fruits in Pine Nut–Tōfu Sauce
(Matsu no Mi Shira Aé, Kaki
Rice Taffy with Crushed
Édamamé (Zunda Mochi)
Measuring Rice Flour
Salmon-Stuffed Kelp Rolls (Shaké
no Kobu Maki)
A Guide to the Kibō Kitchen
Moving Forward: Japan in Recovery
Nuclear Diaspora by
Brimming with Hope by
A Note About Language
The Cast of Kibō Characters:
Colleagues, Cohorts, Collaborators, and Contributors
About the Author
What’s in a Name?
Japan’s northeast is spoken of in various ways. Most common is the generic
though geographically descriptive word: Tohoku. Tō means “east” and hoku
The word sanriku (literally, three riku, or areas) is territorial terminology that
encompasses riku ō, riku chū, and riku zen. In 1896 a large and destructive
earthquake hit the region and media coverage at the time coined the phrase
Sanriku to describe the larger area.
Michinoku, literally the “remote road,” refers to the northern territories and is
cloaked in a romantic aura. It was made famous by the seventeenth century
poet Matsuo Bashō in his travel-inspired verse, “The Narrow Road to the
Interior.” The current spelling of Michinoku, using hiragana (syllabary symbols),
no longer contains clues to the meaning contained in the original calligraphy,
one of which is riku—the same riku as appears in sanriku.
The devastation of Japan’s Tohoku and Kanto regions (see map, page 6)
began with an earthquake of remarkable force on Friday, March 11, 2011,
at 2:46 in the afternoon. The record-breaking tidal waves (tsunami) that
immediately followed left crushing, crippling destruction in their wake. In
the days, weeks, and months thereafter, nature’s onslaught continued with
hundreds of very strong aftershocks, many accompanied by yet more tsunami
and by landslides. When winter thawed into spring, melting snow revealed
deep, destructive fissures in the landscape. To compound the horror, damage
to the Fukushima power plant produced severe and extensive energy shortages and wreaked radiation havoc, forcing widespread evacuation and focusing world attention on safety issues in the use of nuclear energy. The triple
calamity—earthquake, tsunami, and nuclear meltdown—officially has been
named the Great Eastern-Japan Earthquake Disaster (Higashi Nihon DaiShinsai), shortened by most to a painfully simple word: Disaster (Shinsai).
Yet, as Japan struggled—continues to struggle—to rebuild in the aftermath of tragedy, the prevailing mood is one of dogged determination,
imbued with hope. In a single Japanese word: kibō. And that is what I have
chosen to name this culinary tribute to the Tohoku.
The Birth of the KibŌ Book Project
When the first huge, terrifying quake hit on Friday afternoon, March 11, I
was in my Tokyo kitchen preparing for a cooking workshop the following
day. Having lived through several large quakes before, including one in
which I spent hours trapped in an elevator before being rescued, I went
into automatic action trying to pretend it was just a drill, not the real thing.
Trembling (me and the earth together), I shut off the stove and clambered
my way to the front door. As I propped it open—a precaution since frames
can shift, jamming doors shut—I witnessed a crane on the construction site
across the street sway and totter. I donned my emergency-ready knapsack
and crouched down in the doorway. The initial quake lasted for several
minutes—it seemed as though it would never stop.
Still trembling (me and the earth), I turned on the emergency news
channel and learned the center of seismic activity (the largest on record in
Japan, revised later that month to 9.0) was off the coast of Sendai (see map,
page 7). Gigantic tsunami (tidal waves) were predicted, and came . . . and
kept coming, with hundreds of aftershocks. Transportation in Tokyo came
to a halt, and communication services were widely disrupted—frustrating,
frightening. And then, news of the nuclear accident in Fukushima . . .
In the weeks that immediately followed the Disaster, it became increasingly clear that mass evacuations, necessitated by the nuclear accident,
would create a diaspora: displaced communities and disrupted lives.
Like others in Japan who had been spared significant property damage
or personal injury, I wondered how I could help. As volunteer groups sprang
up everywhere to address emergency needs, I found myself thinking more
about long-term recovery. I was especially concerned with the plight of
the refugees who were being relocated to distant places. I wondered how a
writer and teacher of Japan’s traditional culinary arts could assist those in the
devastated Tohoku area. After much soul-searching, I resolved to chronicle
the culinary heritage of the Tohoku—especially of the three prefectures that
were hardest hit: Fukushima, Miyagi, and Iwate (see map, page 7)—before
traditional foods there morphed into unrecognizable fare, or disappeared
entirely. By writing in English, I could engage a wide-reaching readership,
introducing them to local flavors while providing the global community with
a way to share in the region’s aspirations and determination. Even further, I
sought a publishing house that would join me in supporting Japan’s rebuilding and renewal efforts.
My stalwart agent, Lisa Ekus, helped me hone my proposal. In the stifling heat of the summer of 2011, with frequent and severe aftershocks still
rocking the Tohoku and nuclear power plant closings throughout Japan
10 | KibŌ
leaving homes and businesses everywhere with little or no cooling, we submitted my proposal to Ten Speed Press.
They responded enthusiastically, and shared my philanthropic commitment! But . . . they also challenged me to rethink the platform, time frame,
and scope of what I had originally envisioned. There would be time later,
they said, for a more exhaustive treatment of the subject. (They knew, all too
well, from working with me on my previous books, Washoku and Kansha,
that my manuscript would be “information dense.”) Instead, they urged
me to write something much shorter, more timely: an e-original that could
be published by March of 2012, the first anniversary of the Disaster. That
meant delivering a complete manuscript in just a few months—Washoku
and Kansha had each been five-year projects! Both those books had been
written with the help of a demographically diverse, geographically dispersed
group of volunteer recipe testers whose feedback enabled me to understand
how best to make unfamilar food enticing and accessible. I knew that Kibō
would benefit from the same approach, so I immediately sent out a call for
volunteers through my newsletter. I was, thankfully, wonderfully deluged
with offers to assist me.
At the same time, Ten Speed Press assembled a multitalented team of
editors, designers, photographer and food stylist, public relations and marketing experts. Dozens of people came together to help me create this book.
Please read the details in my “Cast of Kibō Characters” (page 124).
Introduction | 11
Recipes and Culinary Tales
from the Tohoku
aving committed to an electronic format and an incredibly short
timeline for finalizing manuscript, I was faced with the difficult task
of selecting just a few dishes to represent the Tohoku region. I consoled
myself with a well-known Japanese saying: hara hachi bu ni isha irazu.
Similar to our saying “An apple a day keeps the doctor away,” the Japanese
say, “A stomach eight-tenths full needs no doctor.” Culinary satisfaction
is not linked to satiety, but rather to being slightly hungry when you leave
the table. In Kibō, I aim for hara hachi bu: to whet your appetite for more.
In Western cultures, we speak of “breaking bread together” as a way
of establishing and nurturing human connections. The recipes in Kibō are
more likely to have you marveling at the deep, rich flavor of miso-seared
scallops or sharing the simple pleasure of a plain salted rice ball (onigiri)
recalling that it was the first food tasted by most survivors in the shelters.
Everyone in Japan has an onigiri story. Most are nostalgic narratives of mother
waking early to pack lunch, hands reddened from pressing steaming rice into
bundles. Mom is likely to have stuffed the rice with katsuo-bushi (fish flakes)
if her child had an athletic competition or an important exam to take (a play on
words because katsuo means winning and bushi means warriors). Biting into a
fish flake–filled onigiri half a century later, a retired businessman might recall
the glorious moment he learned of his acceptance to a top university, or the
day his high school ball club won the regional pennant. For many of today’s
teenagers, whose mothers are no longer dedicated homemakers, onigiri might
conjure up konbini camaraderie: classmates gathering at the local convenience store for an afterschool snack.
What is my onigiri story? Had you asked me before the Disaster, I would have
reminisced about the young New York woman who visited rural Japan in the
1960s (me, then) who became a middle-aged omusubi maven (me, now) (see
The Language of Food, page 20). The story would have started with my first
taste of shockingly sour uméboshi (pickled plum). Buried deep inside a bundle
of lightly salted rice that the locals had called omusubi (not onigiri), I found the
softly wrinkled, dusty-pink, mouth-puckering plum oddly wonderful with the
rice: an unexpectedly satisfying mini-meal. In the ensuing years, I have made
countless omusubi for my daughter and her grade-school teammates (I wonder
if their food memories associate smoky-sweet katsuo-bushi with winning the
swim tournament?), for my husband and his fishing buddies (their preferred
filling is tarako or cod roe), for my kitchen assistants (omusubi filled with bits of
soy-stewed kombu or salted salmon flakes . . . or whatever happened to be on
hand that day), and for myself (I remain a staunch fan of uméboshi ).
Now, after the Disaster, I have a different tale to tell: it is an ode to onigiri,
a chronicle of culinary bonding between a culturally diverse, compassionate community—Yanesen, part of Tokyo’s retro Shitamachi district—and the
survivors of tsunami-ravaged Kesennuma Port, in Miyagi Prefecture (see map,
Like many Tokyoites who had survived March 11 greatly shaken-up but with
little personal injury or property damage, Yanesen residents wanted to help
those in the stricken Tohoku shelters where ready-to-eat food was still in
short supply weeks later. They swung into action with a “soup kitchen” of
sorts. Dubbing themselves the Onigiri Troops, local housewives, shopkeepers,
and members of the Otsuka Mosque (a Tokyo-based Islamic group) gathered at
14 | KibŌ
Genkoji (Buddhist) Temple to produce thousands of onigiri. Their activity was
recorded by nonfiction writer Mayumi Mori and posted to her blog, which is
how I became aware of their efforts.
Mori’s camera zooms in and out, creating a riveting collage of images and
sound snippets early in April. We see the mosque’s truck being packed up with
food and supplies (somehow they managed to navigate nearly 200 miles of
quake-ruptured roadways to make multiple deliveries). We hear the organizers
tell us how they gathered dozens of volunteers and got donations from local
merchants. We see the efficient onigiri production line (scooping, weighing,
shaping, and wrapping the rice bundles) and follow a woman who hauls a
tray laden with hundreds of finished onigiri to the bone-chilling room at back.
(Optimal kitchen hygiene requires the rice be completely cooled before packing it up for the long journey.) We see tired women taking turns massaging
each others sore shoulders and taking care of each other’s children.
The most poignant episode is of a young, bandana-clad mother struggling with
her decision to leave the Tokyo area; her newly launched business selling produce from small local farms cannot survive the onslaught of consumer uncertainty regarding possible radiation contamination. She is concerned, too, for
the safety of her own family. But she does not want to abandon the Yanesen
community that so warmly welcomed them, the newcomers from Osaka, just a
few years ago. The camera captures her tears, and then gently pulls back.
In closing, the production line replays in slow motion, ending with mini-portraits of several volunteers—disposable gloves removed now that the ricepressing work is finished. Gauze masks lowered reveal tired, but smiling, faces.
TASTING TR ADITION | 15
Pressed Rice “Sandwiches” v
Salted, pressed rice sandwiches—onigiri—are easy to pack up, transport, and
eat, making them a substantial, satisfying finger food. Most are shaped into
triangles, though logs called tawara, or “rice sheath,” and balls are also common. Plain, white rice stuffed (like a sandwich) with a filling is the norm, but
mazé gohan (cooked rice that has been tossed with other cooked foods) is also
used in making onigiri. Rice “sandwiches” are usually wrapped with strips of
nori (laver), though onigiri are sometimes slathered with miso or brushed with
soy sauce and grilled. (These are called yaki onigiri, or grilled pressed-rice and
are divine!) In children’s lunchboxes, onigiri are often decorated and made into
cute shapes. The finished food can be called either onigiri or omusubi (see The
Language of Food, page 20).
This recipe shows you how to form four (substantial-sized) to six (smallsized) triangular-shaped onigiri from 2 cups of cooked rice. You can easily
feed a large crowd by cooking more rice; consult the chart in the Cooked White
Rice recipe (page 78). I offer instructions here for stuffing your onigiri with
classic fillings—uméboshi (sour pickled plum) and/or okaka (seasoned fish
flakes)—and wrapping them with nori (laver), but feel free to experiment with
Makes 4 to 6 onigiri
/4 teaspoon salt
2 cups cooked white rice (meshi, page 78),
freshly prepared and still warm
1 uméboshi (pickled plum), flesh pulled from
pit, torn into 2 or 3 pieces
1 (3- or 5-gram) packet katsuo-bushi (fish
flakes, see page 91), drizzled with a few
drops of regular soy sauce, then tossed
to moisten (this mixture is called okaka,
seasoned fish flakes)
1 (7-by 8-inch) sheet nori (laver)
Salt the rice. When making onigiri more than 30 minutes in advance of
eating, salting and cooling the rice is critically important to maintain proper
hygiene (salt retards spoilage). Transfer freshly cooked rice from the bowl of
TASTING TR ADITION | 17
your appliance or stove-top pot to a large wide bowl. The classic Japanese
vessel is a flat-bottomed, wooden tub called a handai that is briefly wet down
with water to keep the rice from sticking to it. If you do not have a handai,
a heat-resistant shallow glass bowl is fine (and preferable to a metal one,
because glass does not retain heat). A large wooden salad bowl that has not
been previously seasoned with garlic or oil is also an option.
Using light cutting and folding motions (pretend you are working with
whipped egg whites, folding them into a cake batter), spread the rice out
in your bowl. Sprinkle with half the salt and toss the rice with light cutting
and folding motions to distribute. Cool the rice to the point that large clouds
of steam are no longer visible. The Japanese use a broad, flat fan called an
uchiwa to aid in this process; stiff cardboard (from a pad of paper) also works
well. Sprinkle the rice with the remaining salt and toss to distribute evenly.
Divide the rice into four 1/2-cup or six 1/3-cup portions. Have a bowl of room
temperature water nearby, to dip your hands and/or spatula in as needed to
keep the rice from sticking to them.
Wet both hands with water, shaking off excess. Scoop up a portion of rice and
lightly compact it into a sphere (this action is called nigiru and is the origin
of the name of this dish). Transfer the rice to your nondominant hand and,
1 with the fingertips of your dominant hand, press the center to make an
indentation. 2 Place either 1 of the pieces of uméboshi or a half (if stuffing 2 onigiri) or a third (if stuffing 3 onigiri) of the okaka mixture in the
indented space. As you do this, cup the palm of your hand to enclose the
filling, making a sphere. Repeat to stuff all portions, setting aside stuffed
rice bundles on a clean work surface (covering a cutting board with plastic
wrap first will keep them from sticking and simplify cleanup).
Take a stuffed rice sphere in your moistened, nondominant hand. 3Bend
your dampened fingers of the other hand to form a V-shaped “roof” over
the top of the rice ball. Exert gentle pressure with this top hand to mold the
rice—this “roof” becomes one of the triangle’s pointed tips—and flatten out
18 | KibŌ
the bottom. Flex your wrist, turning your fingers up. As you do this, the rice
ball will flip so that the edge that previously was formed against your top
hand now rests on the flat palm of your bottom hand. Exert gentle pressure
again to form the second pointed tip on top. Repeat the roll, press, and flip
motion to complete the making of the triangle.
Repeat to make the remaining onigiri. As you work, group the rice bundles
by filling to make it easier to identify later. Many home cooks will create their
own system of identification according to the shape of the rice (triangle, log,
or ball) or design of the nori band (kimono-like crossed-in-front strips or
short bands placed under the base and pressed to front and back of triangular
onigiri; bracelet-like bands, some broad and others narrow, for log-shaped
onigiri; smiling faces or basketball designs “drawn” with strips of nori on
balls). Have fun inventing your own. If you are making 6 small-sized onigiri,
filling half with uméboshi and half with okaka, I suggest you cut your sheet
of nori in half lengthwise, then across twice to yield 6 short strips, each about
11/2 by 4 inches. If you are making 4 larger onigiri, it’s best to cut a single
sheet of nori into 4 strips, lengthwise.
Finished onigiri can be served on a platter. If you are making them ahead of
time, cover the platter with clear plastic wrap and store at cool room temperature. Refrigerating the rice bundles makes them unpleasantly tough.
If you are packing onigiri into a picnic box, wrap each in clear plastic—the
modern method—or in dried bamboo leaves called takénokawa, the oldfashioned method (see photo, page 16). Nori can be wrapped around the
TASTING TR ADITION | 19
rice bundles immediately after shaping them (sticks easily to warm rice) or
just before eating, which gives the onigiri a more distinct seashore aroma
and slightly crispier texture.
The Language of Food
Tonjiki, written with calligraphy for “gather” and “food,” are thought to be the
prototype for modern-day onigiri. Several references to tonjiki appear in the
eleventh-century novel Tale of Genji by Lady Murasaki Shikubu. In her tale of
court romance and intrigue, tonjiki are described as “compact, egg-shaped
spheres of cooked rice.” It seems they were prepared in the banquet kitchens
not to be served to guests, but rather to feed the household help. The rice
was mixed with millet and other less costly grains.
onigiri • nigiru
omusubi • musubu
The Japanese language today has two words for pressed rice bundles: onigiri
and omusubi. Both words begin with an honorific “o,” showing that rice, no
matter what you call it, is a food to be honored. Each of the words, onigiri and
omusubi, derive from verbs that describe the compressing action needed
to shape cooked rice into easy-to-carry bundles. Nigiru means “to press
together.” Musubu means “to tie together, to bind.”
20 | KibŌ
Persimmons Stuffed with
Fall Fruits in Pine Nut–Tōfu Sauce
Matsu no Mi Shira Aé, Kaki Utsuwa
Many food cultures scoop out juicy melons and citrus fruits then serve the fruit,
cut into bite-sized pieces, in the hollowed-out shell. In Japan, persimmons are
used in a similar fashion. The carved-out shell becomes an impressive cup in
which the diced persimmon is served on its own or in combination with other
fall fruits—grapes, pears, crisp apples—that have been napped with a classic
sauce of pine nuts and tōfu called shira aé.
To make the creamy sauce, some cooks merely mash tōfu and season it with
a drizzle of mirin (sweet rice wine) and a drop of usukuchi shōyu (light-colored
soy sauce); others will blend mashed tōfu with sweet, pale miso or a spoonful
of rich sesame paste. In the Tohoku region, many cooks add toasted, crushed
pine nuts to enhance their rendition of shira aé.
4 small firm persimmons, preferably the
boxy-shaped Fuyu variety
2 ounces seedless green or red grapes (about
10), sliced in quarters lengthwise
1 small Fuji apple, cored and diced
1 cup Matsu no Mi Shira Aé (Pine Nut–Tōfu
Sauce, page 87)
Slice off the top of one of the persimmons to make a “lid” about 1/4 inch thick.
With a curved serrated knife (the kind used to cut grapefruit segments),
carefully trace a circle around the inner rim of each persimmon. Ideally, you
will leave about 1/4- to 1/3-inch thick walls. Repeat to make four persimmon
“cups,” each with its own lid.
Dice the flesh you removed from the persimmon cups and put the pieces in
a bowl with the grapes and apple.
TASTING TR ADITION | 71
Just before serving, toss the mixed fruit with the tōfu sauce. Divide among
the four persimmon cups, mounding the filling slightly. Set the lids at a
jaunty angle to the side of each.
Rice Taffy Dumplings
with Crushed Édamamé
A traditional Tohoku dish, jade-colored zunda is true to its name—the word
is written with calligraphy for “crushing” and “beans.” The beans in question
are édamamé—the same green soybeans that are served salted in their pods as
a beer snack. But in this dish, the édamamé are transformed into a dessert-like
dish by grinding them into a sweet topping for chewy little rice-flour dumplings, called omochi.
Makes 20 marble-sized dumplings and 1/2 cup sauce, to serve 4
/4 cup sugar
2 tablespoons water
8 ounces flash-frozen édamamé in the pod
(see page 90) (half of a 400-gram bag)
/2 cup lightly packed rice flour, preferably
dango ko (about 2 ounces) or 1/4 cup
shiratama ko or mochi ko (rice flour made
from mochi-gomé or sticky rice) and
/4 cup jōshin ko, rice flour made from
uruchi mai or ordinary table rice (about
2 ounces total) (see page 101)
2 to 3 tablespoons warm water
To make the sugar syrup, heat the sugar and water in a small pot, stirring to
dissolve. Continue to cook over medium heat, stirring, for 1 minute, or until
the mixture becomes transparent, begins to thicken, and the bubbles become
72 | KibŌ
Matsu no Mi Shira Aé
Pine Nut Tōfu Sauce
Foods dressed with a creamy tōfu sauce are called shira aé—a classic dish in
Japan’s culinary repertoire. To make the sauce, some cooks merely mash the
tōfu and season it with a drizzle of mirin (sweet rice wine) and a drop of usukuchi shōyu (light-colored soy sauce); others will blend mashed tōfu with sweet,
pale miso or a spoonful of rich sesame paste. In the Tohoku region, many cooks
will add toasted, crushed pine nuts to enhance their rendition of shira aé.
The sauce goes marvelously well with fall fruit such as grapes, pears, and tart,
crisp apples. Think of this dish as a Japanese Waldorf salad, minus the mayo (see
Persimmons Stuffed with Fall Fruits in Pine–Nut Tōfu Sauce, page 71). The fruit
can be tossed in the sauce alone, or in combination with blanched leafy greens
(slightly bitter ones, such as dandelion greens or watercress, are especially good).
Makes about 1 cup, 4 to 6 servings
/4 to 1/3 large block firm tōfu (see page
105), about 4 ounces, drained
Pinch of salt
Drop of mirin (see page 95)
/ to 1/3 cup pine nuts (matsu no mi),
Bring a pot of water to a vigorous boil, add the tōfu, and cook for 1 minute
(boil for 2 to 3 minutes if the tōfu is left over from a previous use). With a
slotted spoon, remove the tōfu, draining it well as you set it aside.
In a heavy skillet set over medium heat, dry roast the pine nuts, stirring them
with a spatula or gently swirling the skillet to keep the nuts in motion. When
the nuts are aromatic and very lightly colored, about 2 minutes, remove the
skillet from the stove. The nuts will continue to roast with retained heat, so
remove when the color is on the light side. While still warm, transfer the
nuts to a suribachi (grooved mortar) to crush them the old-fashioned way or
to the bowl of a mini-sized food processor to crush them the modern way.
A GU IDE TO THE KIBŌ KITCHEN
Text and some photos copyright © 2012 by Elizabeth Andoh
Photographs copyright © 2012 by Aya Brackett
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ten Speed Press, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group,
a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
Ten Speed Press and the Ten Speed Press colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
With the exception of text and photographs by Elizabeth Andoh and Aya Brackett,
the following essays, additional photographs, and illustrations are reprinted by permission:
“About Sake,” copyright © 2012 by Yukari Sakamoto. All rights reserved.
“Nuclear Diaspora” and accompanying photograph, copyright © 2012 by Jane Kitagawa.
All rights reserved.
“Brimming with Hope” and accompanying photograph, copyright © 2012 by Hiroko Sasaki.
All rights reserved.
Photographs on page 57 by Karen Shinto
Photographs on pages 49, 60, 62, and 64 by Rebecca Womack
Ceramics shown on pages 70, 94, and 114 by Catherine White
Maps on pages 6 and 7, copyright © by Map Resources
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Kibo (brimming with hope) : recipes and stories from Japan’s Tohoku / Elizabeth Andoh ;
photographs by Aya Brackett. — 1st ed.
Summary: “A tribute to the recipes and traditions of the people of Japan’s Tohoku region
before and after the earthquake of March 2011, by Japanese culinary authority Elizabeth Andoh”—
Provided by publisher.
1. Cooking, Japanese. 2. Cooking—Japan—Tohoku Region. 3. Cookbooks. I. Title.
Design by Toni Tajima
Food styling by Karen Shinto
A Ten Speed Ebook Original
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