Epitaph for a Peach by David M. Masumoto Page A

becomes the focus of mealtime conversations. Grandma Rose’s history unfolds as we talk of apple orchards, summer fruit canning, and summer sausage. She educates me about root cellars that housed a winter’s menu of sausages hanging from racks to piles of produce preserved for months by Wisconsin’s hard, deep snows. Even bratwurst contains a flavor of history. When I eat a meal of “brats and kraut,” I not only learn who grew the cabbage and made the sauerkraut but also am apprised of the evolution of the “brat”—where the pig was raised, who butchered the animal (and if an agreement was made for the butcher to keep a full ham), and who stuffed the links with their secret blend of spices. Fortunately she refrains from announcing the name of the creature that gave its life for our meal. Instead the family tries to decipher the secret of the spice blend.
    (In order to continue the bratwurst tradition, Marcy once had an office party to celebrate a California-style Oktoberfest. She made a door sign inviting everyone to our farm that read BYOBB: BRING YOUR OWN BEER AND BRATS . Some of our guests apparently didn’t get it. One of them couldn’t figure out why she was the only one who brought kids to the party!)
    I can understand why Grandma Rose’s family consumed lots of meat and potatoes. Fresh produce was a luxury, arriving only in summer. Yet traditions take time to change, and despite the fact that fresh produce is now available year round, she still plans meals featuring lots of meat and only an occasional stewed fruit or overcooked vegetable. Once during a visit, I devoured a lettuce leaf garnish, longing for something fresh. I realized that a regional cuisine is firmly entrenched in these farm communities.
    Family traditions accompany meals. In Wisconsin, going to Grandma’s house for Sunday dinner means a visit to the farm. The sons and daughters are obligated to return home, and the adult kids still slip to their designated spots around the family dinner table. Grandma Rose insists that the family wait until everyone has arrived before starting dinner. Grandchildren complain and adults comment about the perpetually late brother, but the family will wait and then begin the meal with a prayer.
    For Grandma Rose, grace before a meal represents an affirmation of family strength. I can hear her commanding voice, with family gathered before her: “Blessed art thou…” She speaks loudly as if, by example, she will encourage everyone to join in. The family follows Grandma Rose’s lead; then halfway through her voice grows soft. I wonder if she’s checking to make sure everyone is participating in their daily rite of gratitude to the Lord.
    Occasionally I sneak a peek and can see her gazing at the family with her glassy eyes. At first it appears she’s conducting a head count, but her eyes move too slowly as she pans the bowed heads and faces of her family. During our last visit with her I thought I saw her old, tired eyes begin to water and tear with the delivery of grace.
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    I WOULD LIKE to say that Baachan also speaks to us through her cooking, but that is not true. The Masumoto clan comes from peasant stock, we are not samurai. We know more about growing, harvesting, and carrying buckets of produce than we know about preparing fine meals.
    The legacy of Baachan’s cooking remains. We serve rice at most meals. She often made okazu, her term for anything stir fried and served with white rice, or gohan. She would add meat or fish if it was available. In her later years, “washing the rice” was her contribution to meals. She would rinse and drain uncooked rice (originally to remove dirt and talc) and set it aside to soak for hours before cooking.
    Taking responsibility for the rice also served as Baachan’s method of assembling the family. I remember that when I was a teenager, she’d survey every family member to ask who would be