When I was a child, I once went to a relative’s wedding in Tokyo.

The party favours included some red rice. When I got home and opened the lid, I let out a cry.

‘Mum, the food’s red!’

This may sound rather rude, but I’ll be honest. I found it rather distasteful. That’s just how unusual it was to me.

Having grown up in Nagaoka, for me, ‘red rice’ meant a brown sticky rice dish flavoured with soy sauce. It contained plump, well-cooked adzuki beans and had a flavour of soy sauce infused with dashi. I used to think that was what was always served on special occasions.

That was the first time I realised that red rice is red.

Even today, Nagaoka’s red rice is seasoned with soy sauce. When I mention this to people from outside the prefecture, they’re usually surprised.

Even within Niigata Prefecture, once you leave Nagaoka, you’ll find red rice cooked with sasage. It is only in Nagaoka and its surrounding areas that the brown, soy-sauce-flavoured version is referred to as ‘red rice’. In other regions, it is more commonly known as ‘soy-sauce sticky rice’.

Why did this happen only in Nagaoka? In fact, there are no clear written records. It seems that its origins remain a mystery to this day.

There are two commonly cited theories. One is that, in the past, it was difficult to obtain the special beans used for colouring in Nagaoka, so people used the soy sauce readily available to them to add colour. The other theory is that, as there were towns specialising in brewing—notably Settaya—soy sauce production was flourishing there.

As for the beans, they are not green beans but adzuki beans. It seems there is no clear explanation as to why adzuki beans came to be used.

There are more things I don’t understand than I do. I imagine that the ingredients native to this region and those that were readily available have shaped the style of the cuisine. You cannot cook with what you do not have; you have no choice but to make do with what is at hand. Nagaoka’s red rice is a reflection of that very principle.

The same thing is happening in other parts of the prefecture.

In Uonuma, there is a dish called ‘kirizai’. It consists of natto mixed with chopped pickled vegetables and other vegetables. It is even served in primary school school lunches. The name is quite straightforward: ‘kiri’ means ‘to cut’, and ‘zai’ refers to vegetables. It literally means ‘chopped vegetables mixed together’.

Why did it come to be in this form? In regions with heavy snowfall, people are cut off by snow for long periods during the winter. In an era when meat and fish were scarcely available, natto—a high-quality source of protein—was extremely valuable. Consequently, people would finely chop leftover pickles and vegetables to increase the volume of their meals. It is said that this was the origin of kirizai.

It’s a dish that simply involves chopping and mixing. Yet within it lay this region’s answer to the question of how to make the most of limited resources.

It is not only food that takes on a form suited to the local area; the ingredients themselves also come to reflect the character of that place.

It’s a vegetable called ‘Kagura Nanban’, which Y-chan said was cute.

These are chillies that have traditionally been grown in Yamakoshi, Nagaoka. Originally, farmers grew them for their own consumption, and it was only relatively recently that they became widely known outside the local area. They are similar in shape to green peppers, with a rough, wrinkled texture towards the base. It is said that they were given this name because their appearance resembles a Kagura mask.

What’s interesting is that there is a very similar variety of chilli further upstream.

This is a variety of chilli known as ‘botanko-shō’, grown in the Nakano area of Nagano Prefecture. Its shape and the way it develops its heat are very similar, and upon investigation, it appears that they are genetically related. If you follow the Shinano River upstream, it becomes the Chikuma River. It is thought that this chilli may have spread along the riverbanks.

How did it spread? There is a local legend in Nakano City that goes like this: during exchanges with the neighbouring town—particularly at weddings—seeds were included amongst the bride’s trousseau. It is said that, as seeds were exchanged in this way, people in this area eventually began to grow them too.

Although they must have started from the same seed, the outcome turned out to be slightly different.

It is said that Nagano’s ‘botanko’ chilli peppers only become spicy when grown at high altitudes. Even if they are grown at lower altitudes, they do not grow very large. I imagine they have evolved to take on a shape suited to the altitude of the land.

The names changed too. In places where it resembled a Kagura mask, it was called ‘Kagura Nanban’; in places where it resembled a peony flower, it was called ‘Botanko-shō’. Even when looking at the same thing, what it resembled differed from place to place.

And the cuisine has changed too. In this region, it has become ‘Kagura Nanban Miso’. It is one of Nagaoka’s signature local dishes.

As a single chilli pepper made its way upstream, it changed in shape, name and the dishes in which it was used. I believe this is what it means to adapt to the local environment.

We have been discussing how things vary from one area to another. However, these differences are not limited to one area compared with another. Even within the same area, things differ from one house to another.

I only found that out after I got married.

First of all, there was ozoni.

As my mother is from Tokyo, the ozoni we used to have at my parents’ house consisted of grilled mochi served in dashi broth. It was a clear broth garnished with mitsuba, kamaboko and yuzu peel.

However, quite apart from that, my grandmother had a request every year.

‘Could you make some zoni mix for me?’

It’s a sort of vegetable soup made by finely chopping vegetables and simmering them in dashi-flavoured soy sauce.

As I didn’t know anything about regional cuisine, I’d always thought my grandmother was making these dishes simply because she fancied eating them herself. I thought they were just her personal favourites. However, I found that the same dishes were served in my husband’s family home as well.

Do people in Nagaoka eat mochi with this vegetable broth? That was the first time I realised it. What I had thought was simply my grandmother’s preference turned out to be a local custom.

Noppe was the same.

I’d never eaten it at my parents’ house. The first time I tried it was in my twenties, at a business dinner. The noppe served at the restaurant had a rich, savoury stock and tasted like a refined simmered dish. I remember being really impressed by how delicious it was.

However, the ‘noppe’ at my in-laws’ house was a thick, gooey mess. It was like a sauce thickened with potato starch. Is this really what they call ‘noppe’? I was quite surprised.

It was only later, when I had the opportunity to learn about vegetables, that I discovered this. Apparently, there are two ways to achieve the thick, starchy consistency of ‘noppe’: one using the natural slime from taro, and the other using potato starch. It is not a case of one being ‘correct’ and the other not. It varies depending on the region and even from household to household. Even the name itself—‘noppe’, ‘kono’ or ‘ōmi’—changes from place to place.

My mother-in-law always thickens the sauce thoroughly with potato starch, saying that’s how her parents used to do it. I haven’t asked her why that’s the case. Perhaps no one knows any more.

Even within Nagaoka itself, things vary from house to house.

At my parents’ house, our meals were a mix of dishes from Tokyo, where my mother grew up, and local specialities. At the time, I took this for granted. As I’d never compared it to other households, I had nothing to compare it with.

It’s usually only when you go out that you realise the flavours of your own home weren’t something to be taken for granted.

The same thing is happening everywhere.

It was the same with oden. The stock was different, the ingredients were different, and the seasoning was different.

Why do they look different? It is not because the makers changed them on a whim. It is simply because the materials available in each region were different.

If you live near the sea, you can get fish; if you live in the mountains, you can gather mountain produce. In cold regions, people needed to develop methods of preservation to survive the cold, whilst in hot regions, they had to devise ways to prevent food from spoiling. I believe that the cuisine of each region has evolved into the form that best suits the local climate and the ingredients available there.

The essence of a region’s character lay in the collection of solutions to the problems our forebears had worked out in their kitchens. Those problems, in short, were about how to make a living in this land. Nagaoka’s red rice and Uonuma’s kirizai were both examples of such solutions.

When we talk about ‘adapting to the local context’, it might sound as though we mean preserving the local traditions exactly as they are – passing them on without changing a single thing about the way things have always been done. However, based on what we have seen so far, I feel that this is not quite right.

Local cuisine has not endured simply because it has remained unchanged. It has endured precisely because it has continually adapted to the local environment. When the ingredients available change, the cuisine adapts accordingly. When lifestyles change, it adapts accordingly. Adapting to the local environment does not mean freezing a form in time, but rather continually adjusting to the current circumstances of that place.

Even Nagaoka’s red rice did not necessarily take its current form from the very beginning. Whilst it is not known exactly how it came to have a soy sauce flavour, its current form has been passed down through the daily lives of the local people.

I don’t think it was a case of anyone deciding to preserve it; I believe it’s simply the most natural form that has survived. I imagine it’s the same with my mother-in-law’s potato starch. It wasn’t decided by anyone; it’s just the way things have always been done in that household.

If that is the case, then adapting to the land and protecting it were not one and the same thing.

Perhaps what truly deserves to be preserved is not a fixed form, but rather the willingness to adapt to the local conditions. Forms may change as local circumstances change. What should be passed down unchanged is the mindset of constantly re-evaluating, as circumstances dictate, how to make a living in this land.

And now, that ‘certain thing’ is beginning to change significantly.

Due to climate change, it is becoming more difficult to harvest the crops that used to be available, whilst different crops are now being harvested.

The same applies to everyday life. The time we spend in the kitchen, the times when the family gathers, and the utensils we use have all changed from what they used to be. What is available to us and the time we have to spare are also different from before. From the perspective of cooking, both were essentially the same. Things simply change.

If, at that moment, one were to focus solely on adhering to established forms, one would be left adrift the instant the foundations that had been supporting them vanished. However, if that mindset—of rethinking how to make a living in this region—remains, then the cuisine can continue to evolve, adapting to new circumstances whilst changing form.

I think it’s because we’ve adapted in this way that our culinary traditions have endured to this day.

Don’t settle on a single ‘correct’ answer. Observe what is there. Adapt to the local context. What we have looked at so far is the story of how cuisine has evolved and endured over time.

However, I have a feeling that the changes currently taking place are of a different nature to those we have seen before.

What should we keep close at hand to ensure that this endeavour, which has continued whilst evolving, carries on into the future?

TERUMI ISHIBASHI

FARM8 Co. Ltd.,

Next chapter: ‘The Future Potential Nurtured by Cooking’ – Chapter 13: Convenience and Leeway