I can only imagine what that hour might have looked like to an outside observer. We all shuffled about the house, skillfully ducking in and out of the rooms. We frantically shoved clothes out of sight while the distinct sound of sizzling oil could be heard from the kitchen. Tables were lifted from under the stairs and a few of us began lining them up while throwing as many cushions as we could on the tatami floor. We were to host a dinner party and had only an hour to prepare ourselves for the 12 incoming guests.
Our time in Kitakata was filled with the unexpected, so I don’t believe any of us were too surprised when Asami, our local contact, told us we were to hold a potluck style dinner party at our temporary residence, the guesthouse.
Dropping us off by car at 5 pm, Asami told us to expect the 12 guests at around 6. That left an hour to cook, clean, and arrange the old house in such a way that 18 people could gather around a table and merrily eat together. I’m still not sure how we pulled it off. Several tables were pushed together, cushions decorated the tatami mats, and our belongings were neatly tucked in a back room. With a few steaming bowls of food on the table, we patiently waited for 6 to roll around. It did, and the clock kept turning. And turning. By the time it reached 6:50, we all began to wonder if dinner that night would be a research group only affair.
As the hands struck seven, Asami pulled into the driveway along with A-san, a worker at a local tourist office. Expecting them to place food next to our now-cold dishes, I adjusted the table accordingly. Walking past me, they quickly entered the kitchen. Apparently our guests still needed to prepare their dishes. We made confused small talk and waited for more guests to arrive.
Ishiguro and I are the basically the same height…
At that point in the trip, going with the flow was second nature. Even still, I couldn’t help but be thoroughly puzzled when a tall man walked in with a machine that looked vaguely like a sewing machine. Confused, I asked him what it was. “Mincha-“ was his response. Quickly trying to decipher the word, I came to the conclusion that this man came with a mincer and intended to make sausages. We quickly set up another table next to an outlet, and he went to work. Asking him a bit more about his food preparation, I learned that this was his first attempt at sausage making. I also learned from Asami that the meat that was about to be stuffed into a lamb intestine came from the pig Charlotte I (we met Charlotte II earlier that day).
Soon, Asami’s daughter along with two of her middle school friends arrived. Upon seeing me stand, they gasped and I quickly informed them that yes, I am indeed two meters tall. I’ve become quick skilled at including this in my self-introduction while in Japan. The girls, perhaps without proper background information on how to interact with a bunch of weird foreigners, began to talk amongst themselves in a corner of the room. I soon noticed one girl sneakily (I use this word lightly) taking pictures of me with her DS. I posed, which was met with a bit of shy laughter.
Posing for a selfie
Meanwhile in the kitchen, Kathy asked the hard-at-work A-san how she intended to get home that night. Ishiguro, upon thinking for a second, informed Kathy that she planned to stay the night. Startled but still not surprised at how many turns this night was taking, Kathy accepted the answer as something matter of fact. Later, when she told me this news, we had a laugh over the whole situation. It was about at this time that another guest, a quiet man of whom I never caught the name, came in the front door. His contribution to the dinner was a gelatinous slime with tiny yellow balls in it. Delicious though it 
was, I couldn’t help but question the substance I ingested.
Back in the corner of the main room, machine primed and ready, B-san began his experimentation. The machine puttered along as meat was stuffed into the top. Though it didn’t seem to be working flawlessly, B-san quickly learned how to cope. Soon, he asked those around him to provide some vegetables to add to the concoction. Bringing over large chunks of onions, Asami’s wife provided the necessary ingredients. Chunks as they were, it was a little difficult to put them through the mincer. The quiet man who arrived early began to help beat the onions into the top, as B-san meat mixture was squirted out the machine into the waiting intestines.
With the faint sound of clattering dishes echoing from the kitchen, laughter occasionally rising from the tables, and a mincer slowly buzzing along, I couldn’t help but feel as though a surreal scene played out before me. And what a wonderful scene it was.
As more people strolled in and more food was placed on the table, I began to wonder when we might all sit down and eat together. To my surprise, that time never came. Beginning the meal without everyone sitting together went against my mother’s years of careful tips on etiquette, but I accepted it nonetheless. I sampled a variety of the dishes and quickly, happily filled my belly, enjoying the company surrounding the tables.
Across from me, the quiet man yawned. Worried he might be too tired to safely drive home, he quietly shuffled to a corner of the room, curled in a ball, and fell soundly asleep. Confused, we accepted his actions as normal on this far-from-normal night (can you see this trend yet?). The clock struck ten, and we began to wonder when we might gain some sleep in preparation for another long day of travel. Unfortunately, Asami was nowhere to be found. Though worried, we ultimately trusted he would be there the next morning to pick us up and bring us to the train station.
All of our guests left around eleven, and we were left mostly to ourselves. After some nightly preparations, we gathered to discuss all that had occurred. Laughing merrily and speaking solely in English, I felt a little bad for our unexpected Japanese guest. I was unsure if I’d be able to sleep with all the excitement. But exhaustion overcomes all, and I drifted into a content sleep.
-Robby Hanson
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