Emily Smith, self-taught forager and documentary filmmaker, shares her first-hand experience living in a rural village in Nara, Japan. Try Emily’s recommended summer recipe of Chilled Summer Noodles at the end of the article.
The first signs of summer
I can tell what is in season simply by looking at what my 94-year-old neighbour Umemoto-san brings to my door each morning. Umemoto-san is a prolific farmer. If I peer out of my window in the early hours, I often catch a glimpse of her shimmying down a ladder onto a steep bank to tend one of her vegetable plots, or bent over double, weeding.
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Our village, Higashiyoshino, is tucked away in the mountains of Nara Prefecture. Forest covers 97% of the landscape, and the road follows the river, winding between towering cedar and cypress. Early one morning, I pedal furiously on my electric bike behind Umemoto-san on her moped. We arrive at the house where she grew up, where she still keeps a garden, to check the myōga, the unopened flower buds of Japanese ginger.
On our way home, we collect takenoko, young bamboo shoots, strapping them to her moped. Unlike the thick takenoko of mōsō bamboo, which I dig from the ground earlier in spring and can weigh several kilograms, these come from madake, a different species of bamboo that emerges on the cusp of summer. Long and slender, they are harvested above ground while still tender enough to snap off by hand. I have never seen them for sale in shops or served in restaurants.
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‘The last takenoko…’ Umemoto-san says. ‘Summer starts now.’
When I asked my friend Mami-san, who is in her eighties, why seasonal food remained important in Japan, she said, ‘Surrounded by mountains, rivers and the sea, Japan is deeply shaped by nature.’ She then brought up the historical calendar. Before Japan adopted the Gregorian calendar in 1873, the lunisolar calendar divided the year into 24 solar terms, each further divided into three to create 72 microseasons, a system originally adopted from China and later adapted to reflect Japan’s cultures and climate.
Although few people today follow the 72 microseasons, this sensitivity to seasonal change can still be felt in many aspects of Japanese life and can be traced back to the Man’yōshū, the oldest surviving collection of poetry compiled in the 8th century. Over time, seasonal motifs became woven throughout Japanese cultures, appearing as kigo, or seasonal words, in poetry, as well as in paintings, folding screens, kimono, ikebana and, naturally, food.
The meaning of shun
Chikako-san, in her mid-seventies, taught me about shun, the Japanese concept of when an ingredient is at its best. She explained that, for many seasonal ingredients, this peak lasts for around ten days and is divided into three stages: hashiri, its first appearance; sakari, when it is at its most delicious; and nagori, the final days of its season, savoured with the bittersweet knowledge that it will not return until the following year.
‘There is a saying that if you eat hatsumono, the season’s first harvest, you live seventy-five days longer,’ Chikako-san tells me.
‘Seasonal foods are the first things to tell us that a new season has arrived,’ my friend Kuniko-san, also in her mid-seventies, says. ‘Even if hatsumono is a little expensive, seeing the first produce of the season makes me want to eat it.’
Fat asparagus spears arrive in the post from my 87-year-old friend Tohara-san the moment they come into season. Japan’s gift-giving culture is deeply entwined with seasonality: friends and family exchange regional delicacies at their peak, aided by an affordable and reliable delivery service.
For Tohara-san, seasonal foods evoke deep nostalgia for her childhood:
‘In each season, there are foods that can only be gathered in that season. If you miss them, you have to wait until next year. Growing up by the sea, my family marked the passing year with whitebait and wakame (kelp) in spring, eel in summer, matsutakei mushrooms in autumn and pufferfish in winter.’
The taste of summer
During the rainy season, cucumbers are abundant. I ferment them in nukadoko, a living rice bran bed. When I first moved in, Umemoto-san gave me some of hers and taught me how to keep it alive by stirring it every day. Tohara-san invites us to barbecue king prawns on her terrace. The last frogs are still singing and the mosquitoes feast too.
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Umemoto-san and I gather wild red shiso (perilla), simmering the leaves with water and sugar to make a refreshing pink drink served over ice. The rest is rubbed with salt and added to large jars of handpicked ume (plum) steeping in their own juices. When the forecast promises three consecutive sunny days in July, bamboo trays of crimson umeboshi (pickled plum) wrinkle in the sun outside both our houses.
Along the usually quiet rivers in the village, families grill whole ayu, or sweetfish, on skewers. At this time of year, almost every conversation ends with the same gentle reminder: ‘Take care in the heat.’ I sit in the cool river eating Umemoto-san’s watermelon, listening to cicadas.
Preserving a way of life
My 75-year-old friend Mariko-san, who first took me to gather sansai, wild mountain vegetables, three springs ago, remembers how different things once were:
‘When I was younger, people ate whatever was in season. Nowadays, ingredients are available throughout the year. Even so, I still try to choose seasonal ingredients whenever I can.’
Kuniko-san remembers accompanying her mother to a lively market, where fresh vegetables and fish were laid out and stallholders loudly praised their produce. She still remembers her sadness when supermarkets eventually replaced it, and worries that Japanese food cultures may disappear unless people make a conscious effort to learn and pass it on.
Umemoto-san doesn’t have a smartphone, Wi-Fi or a computer. She lives seasonally every day, marking the passing days by what is ready to sow or gather, preserve or share. She belongs to one of the last generations for whom this way of living was simply a practical reality of everyday life.
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‘In town, you can just go and buy things,’ she tells me. ‘But living deep in the mountains, you have to eat what you grow.’
When I ask her how she learned to grow her own food, her answer is simple.
‘I taught myself. I learned by watching.’
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And so I watch too, following Umemoto-san and my other older friends through the seasons, cherishing the time I have to share with them.
The 72 microseasons and Japan’s seasonal food culture are, in many ways, two expressions of the same sensibility. Both connect us to the natural world, drawing our attention to the subtle changes unfolding and celebrating their fleeting nature.
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At a time when eating seasonally is a choice rather than a necessity, choosing what belongs to the season is not only a more sustainable way of eating, but a way of grounding ourselves in the moment and marking the passing year. Living here continues to fill me with gratitude for my community and reminds me of its importance in our everyday lives. I’ve come to believe that life isn’t lived on holidays or at weekends, but in the ordinary moments and choices that make up each day. The foods that return with each season give us something to look forward to, becoming part of the rituals and traditions passed between generations and the memories and relationships that shape us. Yet no two seasons, or meals shared around the table, are ever the same.
Chilled Summer Noodles
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Serves 2
In summer, chilled noodles are a great way to nourish yourself when it’s hot. I use all different noodles to mix it up – my favourite is soba, but somen, udon or even spaghetti work well too.
I believe that all recipes should be adapted to whatever you have available. As a forager, this is central to the way I cook: I use what is growing around me, changing ingredients according to what I find and what is in season. One of my favourite things to add is daylily flowers, which taste a little like asparagus mixed with green beans. I also like to decorate with foraged edible flowers.
Recipes should also be adapted to your own taste and mood. Taste your sauce and decide if it’s right; if not, add more sugar, perhaps some sesame oil or a splash of soy sauce for more salt and umami. If you want it creamier, you can grind up sesame seeds or even add a dollop of peanut butter or miso. If the flavours feel a little flat, an extra squeeze of citrus or a little zest, or ponzu (citrus sauce) can really brighten things up. Japanese hot mustard adds a welcome kick. Grated ginger or fresh herbs can bring another layer of freshness. Sliced chillies, chilli crisp, a fried egg, a boiled egg… it’s your lunch and there are no rules!
Whatever vegetables you have can be added too – green beans, asparagus, courgettes or anything else that happens to be in season. I like to blanch or steam them briefly so they stay crisp, but sautéed vegetables work just as well. Cooked mushrooms, such as shiitake, add plenty of flavour too.
For extra texture, try shredded nori, wakame, pickles, kimchi, toasted nuts or grated daikon. I often add cubed firm tofu. Thinly sliced ham is a classic topping for hiyashi chūka, the Japanese chilled noodle dish that inspired this recipe.
Best of all, it’s great as leftovers and travels well in a bento. Toss the noodles with a little toasted sesame oil to stop them sticking together, pack the sauce separately, then pour it over just before eating. I love taking mine into the forest or down to the river.
Ingredients
180g dried soba noodles (about 2 bundles)
A selection of raw seasonal vegetables cut into strips, or bite-sized pieces – I use red peppers, carrot, tomatoes, courgette, cucumber, okra, or even cabbage, lettuce or radishes
1 egg
½ tsp mirin (optional)
Pinch of salt
Neutral oil, for frying
Chopped spring onions
Sesame seeds, to serve
Toasted sesame oil (suggested if making for lunch box)
Sauce
45ml soy sauce
1.5 tbsp rice vinegar
1-2 tsp of sugar or honey, to taste
1 tbsp of kombu or shiitake dashi or water
Method
Cook the noodles according to the packet instructions, then drain and rinse immediately under cold running water until completely cool.
Make the omelette strips: In a bowl, whisk the egg with a small pinch of salt and ½ teaspoon of mirin, if using – it adds sweetness. Lightly coat a small frying pan with neutral oil and pour in the egg, swirling the pan to create a thin layer. Depending on the size of your pan, one egg should make one or two thin omelettes. Cook until set on the surface, then flip and cook briefly on the other side. Transfer to a clean kitchen towel to absorb excess oil and leave to cool before slicing into thin strips.
Make the sauce: Mix all the sauce ingredients together, tasting and adjusting as you like.
Prepare the toppings: Cut the vegetables and any other ingredients you are serving, keeping them in separate piles.
Assemble and serve: Divide the noodles between two bowls and arrange the toppings in separate piles over the noodles. Finish with the spring onions and a generous sprinkle of sesame seeds. Pour over the sauce just before serving.
About the author
Emily Smith is a British documentary filmmaker and forager with Japanese–Korean roots, based in the mountain village of Higashiyoshino, Nara, where she works as a regional revitalisation co-ordinator. Her work explores the relationship between people and the natural world. For the past eighteen months, she has been documenting Japan’s 72 microseasons, creating a short film for each one. She is the founder of the Higashiyoshino Mushroom Society and shares her work on Instagram at @down2forage.