Querencia draft

            The Court

            Cracking my neck, the sunlight seared through the window slits burning my fore arms. My papers splashed out onto the table, I worked through bunches of paper cuts. Every media script, science model, and math packet was lying waiting for the first and last drag lifeless, and clay touches. When I finally pulled the icepack out of the freezer I know I was breaking down. All of the endless girl drama at school mixed with fuming parents, and the bipolar sister, all while trying to stay same even I think I deserver a break.

            Luckily, all of the cramming and suffering would be gone in about a half an hour. Lifting my overfilled head off the table and grabbing the cool ice pack, I blinked to make sure I was awake. Inhaling fresh air, I grab my lucky well-worn purple and black socks, ripped and still degrading kneepads, burnt black tight and my “rox” teal, black and white jersey. Rushing to the bathroom I throw my socks, knee pads, and ankle braces onto the floor slamming the door closed I strip off my stressed out clothes, and slip on my team pride. Coming out of the bathroom, I already feel more relaxed and in my comfort zone. Sitting down on my carpet I yank my gear on and slide on my socks to the kitchen to fill up my water bottle. In the car I wait shakily but patiently for my dad to drive me to McKinley High Gym already feel better slipping my earphones on and  …..

            My bag on my shoulder, water bottle in hand, socks with slippers I walk into the gym. Green, pink, black and yellow jerseys pass me, eyes staring… recognizing “Jammers” jersey, I put my water bottle down. I smell spam, rice and the very familiar scent of the grill of the concession. Trying to keep myself calm I turn up the volume and walk to my team. “I’m almost home; we walk to the back of the gym where unlike the inside of the gym, it’s almost serene. Coach Barney gives us a speech, putting our minds into game mode on the start of the final day of Hawaii Regional’s.

            I can almost see the door to my happy place. Tying my shoelaces, an inch away from my beloved court, I can feel the power radiating from it. Finally, I run on, reach out and dive for the floor sliding 20ft. to reach my friends warming up. My stress melts, my skin tingles and I feel comfortable.

            Game after game we fight to our final spot in the championship game. Our court, the one right smack in the middle of the whole gym. That is always the championship court. Ever since 12’s Black, then 12’s Black again to 13’s and finally 14’s this year. That court has always been ours. Checking the stats we see that our rival Team Piko will be challenging us for the title. Having lost our biggest hitter to them, plus Shaylah (our main setter) and having Bailey (our other setter) struggling with a wrist problem in the game, its up to us to do our best with what we can. We take our place on the court and I can feel the stress of the day’s games being shaken off of me. All that matters is this game, and I intend to win it.

            The rectangular lights stare into my eyes. The court smoothes out and I memorize every inch of this court. We high five Team Piko, and then the fight begins. Points go by, back and forth, kill after kill we lead, fall back and then rise with a run of service aces. I can feel the hair on my arms rising beads of sweat all over my body. My jersey is soaked, shoes are slippery from the lack of grip and I can feel the crowd’s confidence made up of Piko parents. Taking a deep breath, sweat drips into my mouth and mixes with the leftover of Gatorade. The taste was probably terrible, but I couldn’t care less.

The last point finally comes and the score is 23-24. One more and we win, which is all I could care about. I see Bailey in front of me, Lia to her right Jojo to her left, Madi on my left side and Arie at the service line. She serves it over and there’s a perfect pass to the setter. She sets their biggest hitter and one of toughest hits comes through our small block. My senses going on overload I read my friends hesitation and run by her side just in time to get the ball up. Bailey sets it up to Lia. I yell at her, “Swing!” at the top of my lungs. I see this in slow motion, arms rising and a face that screams “Raaaaah!” She makes a smart shot and pounds it down the line. The defensive specialist shanks the ball to the stands, and I let out a breath of relief.

I don’t know why being on the volleyball court makes me unfold. Yelling as loud as I can or rolling on the ground making “pew pew pew” sounds during breaks, I can just feel like myself. You could say that my true colors come out, but I guess that’s why this is my querencia.

ROOTS & RECIPES ESSSSAY!...draft

OOOOO! Snickers mini candy bar melting in my mouth as I search through my Halloween bag. Rushing through the mall for the best deals the day after thanksgiving, eyes fluttering shut, barley staying awake. Fast forward a month, oh the piles of smiles/presents, separating our money for church giving. Next, blowing up tangerines and roasting passerby roaches with New Years Eve sparkler bunches. Finally, the last holiday tradition of trying to slow down my chews so that I can keep the taste of ozoni in my mouth. 

I can’t remember when I was too young to talk, just as I can’t remember when the tradition of  having ozoni every new years day in our house started. I guess its just something you always thought was there. But, actually there was a start in Japan but I don’t know that much about that because when I asked my grandma who taught her, she replied the opposite of what I had thought.  “Actually no” she told me. “Back then I had no idea of what it was. The idea of mochi in soup was so...different. I always thought mochi was supposed to be sweet!” she said laughing as she recalled this. Ever since she was small, the way to eat mochi was with kinako (soybean flour) mixed with sugar. I only learned what ozoni was when grandpas relatives introduced it to me. 

Ozoni is one of the thickest soups I have ever eaten. It contains basically chicken, shiitake mushroom, mochi, chicken base and mizuna. Plus many little ingredients that make it special. Ginger,  garlic, round onions, dried shrimp, and shiitake mushroom make my grandmas ozoni. After  hearing all of the special things that go into making this delectable dish, I ask her how she makes it. As she explained to me I could imagine cooking boards, steam clouding the air, and oh the smell is like being full, but just having to shovel that last spoonful into your mouth.

First you must prepare everything, just as you would any other soup. So, first we soak the shiitake mushrooms for either 4 hours in cold water, or the easier way which is 1/2 hour in hot water.  Then you mince the garlic & ginger. After mincing chop up chicken, onions, shrimp, and once the mushrooms are done, those too. The variation that my grandma has to make her version special is sautéing some of the ingredients. So the chicken, and shrimp along with a small amount of oil mixed with the garlic and ginger fill the pan until the chicken is brown. Then, the onions and mushrooms are mixed into the concoction. And for the soupy portion, water with chicken broth is added and is cooked for about a half hour at a simmer. Then, the best part: the mochi is added. And lastly, the iron rich- but still yummy mizuna is added. 

The boneless/skinless chicken soaked in the chicken broth, the slight taste of ginger and garlic in both that and the tiny pieces of shrimp! Slurping up slivers of the long waited for shiitake mushroom, and crunching down on the fresh mizuna. Finally saving the best for last, scooping the gooey mochi with chicken and all the other ingredients sticking to it, right into my mouth. I bite into it, trying to tear off a perfect bite-sized piece. 

This soup and tradition of eating it every new years was done long ago in Japan, and is very special to each and every one of us. We make our own memories that has mizuna squished into the very best parts. Many people around the world have their own versions, memories and more with this soup, and I hope to continue this tradition. As times changed so did the soup, and I hope to actually stay more true to how the older style was made, and still have the same taste bud craving ozoni that was made for me when I was a tiny asian. 

ROOTS & RECIPES

Every new years day our family would wake up really late. We would be sleepy eyed, cranky, and most of all hungry. But, every year we still woke up and headed to my grandma's house. I knew it would all be worth it, because she would make her famous Ozoni. This soup was the thing that was able to get me up even after a long night. After many years, memories accumulated and is still one of the best things about the holiday season. And for that exact reason is why my topic is what it is, and also why I am interviewing my grandma.