By Portland winter. The dark at four-thirty PM. The rain on the porch. Sunday farmers market. Tomatoes, shiso, kabocha when in season, mushrooms in fall. The shopping list is short and exact.
Miya, 9, can shape onigiri without falling apart. She uses wet hands. She knows the order without being told. Barbara called Sunday. We talked for twenty minutes. She told me about the play she is directing. I told her about the kitchen.
Tamagoyaki Wednesday morning. Fumiko's pan. The thin layers. The careful folding. The slice into rectangles. The breakfast.
Tomi home soon. The kitchen quiet.
A reader sent me a handwritten card this week. Her grandmother had cooked Japanese food in 1970s Boise. She had felt alone in it. The newsletter, she wrote, made her feel less alone. I taped the card to the wall above my desk.
The rain in long sheets Tuesday afternoon. I made tea. I watched it from the porch. The cottonwoods on the next block were silver in the wet.
I texted Miya a photo of the shiso. She texted back a heart and a single word: home.
I wrote at the kitchen table from six to eight. The newsletter was forming. The opening sentence was the hard sentence — they always are. I rewrote it five times. The fifth time was the right time.
I made onigiri for tomorrow's lunch. Three triangles. Salted plum in the center. Wrapped in nori. The cling wrap. The drawer where I keep them. The system.
Made dashi at five-thirty AM. Ten minutes in the kitchen alone with the kombu and the bonito flakes. The day's first prayer.
Yoga Tuesday morning. The studio in Sellwood. Eight students. The class was the class.
Tomi watered the garden Saturday morning. The shiso was head-high. The shishito peppers were producing. The kabocha was running on the fence.
Miya's old room is now my office. The desk is by the window. The shiso outside. The newsletter in progress. The afternoons are quiet.
I read for an hour Sunday night. A book of essays by a Korean-American writer about food and grief. I underlined a paragraph that said exactly what I had been trying to say in the newsletter for months.
I cleaned the kitchen Sunday afternoon. Wiped the counters. Reorganized the drawer where the chopsticks live. Sharpened the knife. The reset was the reset.
Coffee with a friend Saturday morning. We talked about books, about kids, about the way our forties became our fifties. The talking is the thing.
The neighbor's dog barked at nothing for twenty minutes Sunday afternoon. The neighbor apologized. I told him I had been writing through it and the white noise was helpful. He laughed.
The cat was the cat. Mochi at fifteen sleeps most of the day. She still eats with enthusiasm. She still sits at the kitchen window watching the back garden.
Miya is in elementary school. The Saturday Japanese school continues. She still complains. She is still going.
Therapy Tuesday. We talked about the wedding. We talked about Barbara. We talked about Fumiko. The hour passed. The work continues.
Sunday farmers market in the rain. The vendors knew me. The Hood River apple stand had honeycrisps. I bought four pounds.
I drove to Uwajimaya Wednesday. Kombu, bonito flakes, white miso, a small bag of mochiko for tomorrow's project. The store smells like home.
A panic flicker Tuesday evening, brief, manageable. I breathed. I drank water. I went outside and walked around the block. The flicker passed. The body did its work.
Every Wednesday morning I make tamagoyaki in Fumiko’s pan — thin layers, patient folding, the same quiet ritual. When I went looking for a recipe to share alongside this week’s letter, I kept coming back to a dish that asks for exactly that same attention: Fruit ’n’ Cream Crepes, where the batter spreads thin across a warm pan and the folding is the whole point. The card on my wall, the shiso outside the window, Miya’s single word — home — all of it felt like this: something simple, made with care, that holds what matters inside it.
Fruit ’n’ Cream Crepes
Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 20 min | Total Time: 35 min | Servings: 4 (8 crepes)
Ingredients
- 2 large eggs
- 1 cup whole milk
- 1/2 cup all-purpose flour
- 1 tablespoon granulated sugar
- 1/4 teaspoon salt
- 1 tablespoon unsalted butter, melted, plus more for the pan
- 1 package (8 oz) cream cheese, softened
- 1/4 cup powdered sugar
- 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
- 1/2 cup heavy whipping cream
- 2 cups mixed fresh fruit (sliced strawberries, blueberries, and peaches work well)
Instructions
- Make the batter. In a medium bowl, whisk together the eggs, milk, flour, granulated sugar, and salt until completely smooth with no lumps. Stir in the melted butter. Let the batter rest for 10 minutes at room temperature — this relaxes the gluten and gives you tender crepes.
- Cook the crepes. Heat a lightly buttered 8-inch nonstick or well-seasoned skillet over medium heat. Pour in 1/4 cup of batter and immediately tilt and swirl the pan so the batter spreads into a thin, even round. Cook for 1 to 2 minutes until the edges are set and the bottom is pale gold. Flip carefully and cook 30 seconds more. Transfer to a plate and repeat with remaining batter, stacking crepes as you go.
- Make the cream filling. In a large bowl, beat the softened cream cheese, powdered sugar, and vanilla extract together until smooth and fluffy. In a separate bowl, whip the heavy cream to stiff peaks, then gently fold it into the cream cheese mixture until just combined.
- Prepare the fruit. Slice or portion your fresh fruit so it is ready to layer. If using strawberries, hull and slice them thin.
- Assemble. Lay a crepe flat. Spread 2 to 3 tablespoons of the cream filling across the lower half. Arrange a spoonful of fruit over the cream. Fold the crepe in half, then in half again into a triangle, or roll it into a loose cylinder — either way is right.
- Serve. Arrange on plates and top with any remaining fruit. Serve immediately, or cover and refrigerate for up to one hour before serving.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 390 | Protein: 9g | Fat: 24g | Carbs: 36g | Fiber: 2g | Sodium: 295mg