Hawaiian Deli Sandwiches

A late spring rain Tuesday afternoon. The garden grateful. The newsletter Sunday morning. Three hundred words about the way the kombu releases its flavor in cold water overnight. The piece took four hours. The piece is what it needed to be.

Miya, 10, can shape onigiri without falling apart. She uses wet hands. She knows the order without being told.

Rice bowl with garden greens. Pickled vegetables on the side. A simple summer meal that tastes like the season.

I sat at the kitchen window with my tea. The garden was the garden.

The newsletter went out Sunday morning. The opening line took an hour. The piece took five. The piece was what it needed to be.

I drove to Uwajimaya Wednesday. Kombu, bonito flakes, white miso, a small bag of mochiko for tomorrow's project. The store smells like home.

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.

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.

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.

Therapy Tuesday. We talked about the wedding. We talked about Barbara. We talked about Fumiko. The hour passed. The work continues.

Tomi watered the garden Saturday morning. The shiso was head-high. The shishito peppers were producing. The kabocha was running on the fence.

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.

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.

Sunday farmers market in the rain. The vendors knew me. The Hood River apple stand had honeycrisps. I bought four pounds.

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.

Made dashi at five-thirty AM. Ten minutes in the kitchen alone with the kombu and the bonito flakes. The day's first prayer.

I cleaned the kitchen Sunday afternoon. Wiped the counters. Reorganized the drawer where the chopsticks live. Sharpened the knife. The reset was the reset.

I texted Miya a photo of the shiso. She texted back a heart and a single word: home.

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.

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.

Miya is in elementary school. The Saturday Japanese school continues. She still complains. She is still going.

Yoga Tuesday morning. The studio in Sellwood. Eight students. The class was the class.

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 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.

The days that hold the most — the early dashi, the long newsletter sentence, the walk around the block after the panic flicker — are the days that ask for a lunch you don’t have to think about. These Hawaiian Deli Sandwiches have become exactly that for me: sweet rolls, good ham, a little pineapple brightness, assembled in the ten minutes between closing the laptop and going back to the garden. Miya used to ask for them on Saturdays. Now I make them for myself, at the kitchen table, with tea still in the cup.

Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 5 minutes | Total Time: 15 minutes | Servings: 6

Ingredients

1 package (12 count) Hawaiian sweet dinner rolls
3/4 lb thinly sliced deli ham
6 slices Swiss cheese
1/2 cup canned pineapple tidbits, well drained
3 tablespoons Dijon mustard
2 tablespoons mayonnaise
1 tablespoon butter, melted
1 teaspoon poppy seeds
1/4 teaspoon garlic powder

Instructions

Preheat and prep. Preheat oven to 350°F. Lightly grease a 9x13-inch baking dish. Without separating the rolls, slice the entire sheet of Hawaiian rolls in half horizontally so you have one large top and one large bottom.
Mix the spread. Stir together the Dijon mustard and mayonnaise in a small bowl until smooth. Spread evenly over the cut sides of both the top and bottom halves of the rolls.
Layer the filling. Place the bottom half of the rolls in the prepared baking dish. Layer the ham evenly over the rolls, followed by the Swiss cheese slices. Scatter the drained pineapple tidbits over the cheese in an even layer.
Close and glaze. Set the top half of the rolls in place. Mix the melted butter with the poppy seeds and garlic powder and brush evenly over the tops of the rolls.
Bake. Cover loosely with foil and bake for 10 minutes. Uncover and bake an additional 3 to 5 minutes, until the tops are lightly golden and the cheese is melted.
Slice and serve. Use a sharp knife to cut along the roll seams into individual sandwiches. Serve warm.

Nutrition (per serving)

Hawaiian Deli Sandwiches — The Meal Between the Writing and the Garden