be_on_key

I love Japanese food. I was not, however, an immediate convert. The first time I was exposed to the exotic fare was in a funky little restaurant in Capitola Village that was situated directly under an enormous train trestle that spanned the San Lorenzo River. I was there with my mother, my younger stepbrother and another friend. I asked for pointers from my food senseis, but they assured me that I’d like nearly everything on the menu. Worry free, I perused the menu. After all, it all seemed harmless enough. For example, who doesn’t like teriyaki? It’s sweet. It’s salty. Everything you could ask for in fine cuisine. Even the California Roll was an intriguing combination. Especially because it had avocado in it. I love avocado. Mild, creamy and refreshing, I’ve even been known to make an avocado sandwich with nothing but bread, avocado and a thin layer mayonnaise.

I was eyeing the large hunk of avocado that was nestled aside the little delicate green plastic sheet cut to resemble one-dimensional blades of grass. Thinking the minty-colored morsel had broken free of the tightly rolled coil of seaweed, crab, cucumber and rice, I grinned from one side of my mouth. “I’ve got you now,” I whispered under my breath. Sneaking up from the rear, I awkwardly snatched up the rogue ingredient with my chopsticks and quickly deposited it on my tongue to savor the gentle flavor.

Imagine my surprise when the pretty pastel wad attacked with a ferocity I had never before experienced with any other edible substance. In my inexperience with cookery from the land of the rising sun, I mistook a nearly lethal amount of wasabi for my beloved avocado. Panic set in as the effects of the fiery substance spread from my tongue southward to my throat and northward to my unsuspecting nasal passages and tear ducts. It was as if my head had spontaneously combusted (a phenomenon with which I am a tad obsessed) yet I was still alive to experience every painful horrifying moment. The heat subsided within seconds but the memory is still enough to elicit a sweat moustache. Nobody else at the table had seen what I had done, but all six eyes were staring at me as I composed myself. “What did you do?” “Did you choke on something?” “Why are you so red?” “You’re sweating. Are you okay?”

Once I retraced my ill-fated steps there was a moment of silence, followed by an eruption of laughter that could only have been drowned out by a train crossing the great rusty steel structure overhead. It’s one of those stories still recounted at every family gathering. It’s not the only story about me to be added to the familial arsenal over the years (Heaven forbid we should forget the time when I was a pre-teen and tripped up my grandparents’ stairs holding the Thanksgiving pumpkin pies), but one of their favorites to be sure.

I’ve acquired a taste and a healthy respect for wasabi since that time. My family now eats Japanese food on a regular basis. Just tonight, my mom, whom Jacob and Andrew have lovingly renamed JuJu (her given name is Judi), was visiting from out of town and we took her to one of our favorite sushi spots. Jacob wanted some crayons so he could draw something, most likely a scene taken from his exciting other life in outer space. When the waiter arrived at the table to take our drink order, we all told him what we would like and then my mom asked for some crayons. “We have ah Sprite,” the waiter replied in his best broken English.

“No, I’m sorry. My grandson would like a crayon.”

“We only have ah Sprite,” responded the waiter again with a smile.

“No. A craaaay-onnnnnn,” responded JuJu patiently.

“Ahhhh, no. Only ah Sprite.”

“No, not a drink. A crayon. Something to draawwww with.”

There was no verbal response from our waiter. Only a forced yet pleasant smile and a slight nod. There was an uncomfortable silence, and then he walked away, half grinning and half gritting, showing just a little too much tooth. And JuJu was left at the table, forever crayonless and looking at us in disbelief. We were witness to a complete breakdown in communication. The great language barrier had reared its ugly head, leaving both parties confused, frustrated and unsatisfied.

We all fall victim to a great language barrier. Not like the kind in Babel or at the sushi bar that night, but the everyday kind that makes us feel alone. How many times do we reach out to another person, only to be disappointed? Feeling misheard. Unsatisfied. Yearning for a connection, only to be left with a puzzled look and a view of the back of someone’s shaking head. And how many times are we the one leaving the other person wanting more, not grasping what it was they were asking of us? Or perhaps not really caring. How many missed opportunities for relationship have we stupidly grinned our way through, simply agreeing to give up on each other, never giving or receiving that which is most dear to us. Acknowledgement. Respect. Love.

The next time you need a crayon, an encouraging word, or especially some advice on sushi condiments, just let me know. I’m here for you…