Friday, April 18, 2003

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UMEBOSHI

Yes. Read that word. Remember that name. Honor the epitome of... no, not sourness; not saltiness, nor astringency, though it is all three, unlike any other big hitters in that puckery ballpark such as lemon juice, vinegar, alum or cynicism. The umeboshi or pickled plum is in a class by itself.

Major component of Japanese soul food, the umeboshi is the pink and smily grandmother of the green plum (actually a variety of apricot but why quibble over facts at a time like this), wrinkled and salty and soft but very brash, and can still show you youngsters a thing or two. So honor the high goddess of whatever it is, the supreme being of puckerdom, that indefinable quality that is so perfectly embodied in the umeboshi and nowhere else in the universe. Even the name is just right: oo-meh-bo-shee, it sounds delicious.

You can make your own umeboshi if you've got a lot of just right green ume, just right rock salt, just right purple shiso leaves, just right crockery, a lot of time and a few other things, but like rice, in Japan the umeboshi is a matter of regional pride, everywhere claiming that theirs is the best. And each is best in its way, but with umeboshi it's a more of a gourmet approach, as with wine or cheese or coffee: we all know what we like.

I like umeboshi in a beautiful scarlet-pink, with a rather firm softness, the acquired saltiness and the native sour/bitterness of the originally green plums now wed in a ruby synthesis as perfect as that of cream and honey or peanut butter and jelly or gin and tonic or-- well, it's another on that short list of perfect couples. We get ours in a bucketful every spring, fresh made from a Kanazawa farm full of wooden buckets jammed with rosy, salty, mouthwatering exquisiteness from pampered trees that know all about heaven. Great as a topping on rice, mashed up in a winter ochazuke or as a digestive spring cleanser, the umeboshi clearly has been handed down to us by the gods themselves. I'm going on like this because we just ran out of our year's supply, and wait with mouths watering at the very thought.