By January. New Year. The year the book is published. The sentence sits in my chest like a held breath: this is the year. The year the book exists. The year Fumiko's story enters the world. The year the chipped bowl becomes public property, shared with strangers who will read about it and imagine it and maybe, some of them, go to a Japanese store and buy a ceramic bowl and drink miso soup from it and feel, without understanding why, that someone far away and long gone is taking care of them.
I made nanakusa gayu — the seven-herb porridge, the January 7th reset. The porridge was thin and green and healing and I ate it in the morning light and thought: this is the year. The thought was not anxiety. The thought was readiness. I am ready. The book is ready. The soup is ready. The woman is ready. The readiness has been building for nine years, herb by herb, recipe by recipe, essay by essay, the way the porridge is built herb by herb, each one adding its flavor, each one contributing to the whole.
The publication date is confirmed: March 15th. The Ides of March. A date that carries literary weight, the weight of Shakespeare and empire and the dramatic turning of fate. My book, about a grandmother and miso soup, will be published on the same date as Caesar's assassination. The symmetry is absurd. The publishing industry does not check its dates against Roman history. But the date is mine now, and the date carries: Fumiko, and March, and the beginning of cherry blossom season, and the turning of winter into spring, and the beginning of something that I have been building for nine years and that is about to become real in a way that the blog and the essays and the columns have been real but also not real, because real is: a book on a shelf with your name on the spine. Real is: a stranger in a bookstore picks it up. Real is: the stranger reads the first sentence and keeps reading. Real is about to happen.
The porridge was for the reset — the quiet, herb-by-herb ritual of January 7th. But the moment I confirmed the date, March 15th in black ink on a contract, I knew the morning called for something else alongside it: something sparkling, something the color of cherry blossoms, something that felt like a beginning you could clink a glass to. A strawberry mimosa is not solemn. It is not nine years of work. It is the sound readiness makes when it finally tips over into celebration — and I needed to hear that sound.
Strawberry Mimosa
Prep Time: 5 minutes | Cook Time: 0 minutes | Total Time: 5 minutes | Servings: 2
Ingredients
- 1 cup fresh strawberries, hulled (plus 2 whole for garnish)
- 1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
- 1 tablespoon sugar (or to taste)
- 1 cup chilled prosecco or dry champagne
- 1/4 cup fresh orange juice, chilled (optional, for brightness)
- Ice (optional)
Instructions
- Make the strawberry puree. Combine hulled strawberries, lemon juice, and sugar in a blender. Blend until completely smooth, about 30 seconds. Taste and adjust sweetness. Strain through a fine mesh sieve if you prefer a silkier texture, pressing the solids gently with a spoon.
- Chill the puree. If the puree is not already cold, refrigerate for 5 minutes or stir briefly over a bowl of ice water. A cold puree keeps the bubbles lively.
- Assemble the mimosas. Pour about 3 tablespoons (roughly 1/4 cup) of strawberry puree into each champagne flute. Add orange juice if using — 2 tablespoons per glass.
- Top with sparkling wine. Slowly pour the chilled prosecco or champagne over the back of a spoon held just above the puree to preserve the fizz. Fill each flute nearly to the top, leaving a small gap.
- Garnish and serve. Perch a whole strawberry on the rim of each flute. Serve immediately.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 145 | Protein: 1g | Fat: 0g | Carbs: 15g | Fiber: 1g | Sodium: 5mg