In just a few weeks I've watched my little, translucent food cubby in the kitchen grow from an itty-bitty see-thru skeleton into a bulbous pantry where various noodles, spices and sauces push outward against the frosted edges, threatening to burst its plastic seams.

What this essentially means is that I'm learning to cook Japanese food, a dream of mine that is now gradually being realized.

The smell of sushi vinegar lingers on my hands for usually an hour or more after I've finished a batch of kappa-maki rolls, which is fine because the scent is a mouthwatering reminder of the day's culinary success--a satisfying feeling. Lately, though, the aroma has stuck around much longer than an hour; it remains constantly stuck to my skin, not because I refuse to wash my hands, because I'm constantly creating sushi.

I just can't stop myself.

After Hisayo and Numa first planted that tiny seed of sushi knowledge up in my brain, I've been practicing the technique with the dedication of a monk, over and over again, nonstop, morning, day, night, living in the kitchen; all in an effort to improve my skill at something I never thought I could do at even in a menial capacity--though so many of my Japanese friends, after sampling the bite size rolls, seem to think that I have already mastered something that men dedicate their lives to.

I beg to differ.

Though it is quite pleasing to produce a full plate of fairly mediocre sushi to a group of Japanese and then listen to their repeated cries of "Umai!" "Umai!" which would translate to something like "Sweet" or "You are very talented." Constantly... euphoric...

But I'm not sure about all that. Talented? Probably not... addicted? Definitely.

So much about Japanese food preparation is, as with Japanese society, not simply about the finished product, but about strict adherence to rules throughout the process, and then attention to detail during presentation. There's something calming about creating sushi--waiting for the rice to cook, carefully arranging the necessary tools, washing vegetables... stirring in the vinegar, spreading the sticky rice, adding wasabi, and finally creating the roll itself.

Over and over again I produce far more sushi than one man can concern even in three sittings, which is actually just fine because there's typically plenty of Japanese to share with, though every time Hisayo sees me head for the kitchen I hear cries of "Mata?!" or, "Again?"

Yes, again. Just like the language, if I want to create good sushi, I will have to practice.

"Mata??"

Yes, mata, and I know you'll be coming through that kitchen door shortly to help.

I love sushi. Yes. But even more recently sushi has become secondary to preparation of my favorite Japanese dish: soba--perhaps one of the most difficult things (next to tofu) for a westerner to eat due to all the slurping and chopstick hoisting required to properly get the long, cold noodles into one's belly. It can be quite a circus.

Typically after a full plate of soba has made its way down my esophagus, the plate, table and my clothing look similar to the aftermath of a typhoon that was spraying men-sauce rather than water--oh, and speaking of typhoons, tomorrow, typhoon number 23 should be arriving. Fun, fun.