Rice balls

Onigiri are a Japanese food made from white rice (sometimes salted, most often plain) formed into cylindrical or triangular shapes and wrapped in nori (seaweed). Within this package is a filling: ume (pickled plum), salmon, cod, tuna mayo, bonito flakes…the list goes on.

You can see onigiri arranged in a refrigerated cabinet adjacent to the checkout counter at convenience stores, gas stations and supermarkets. This pride of place reflects their popularity. They’re Japan’s equal to the ham sandwich, a trustworthy and versatile staple that is cheap, predictable, and easy to consume. 

Onigiri are, to put it simply, delicious. 

My first real taste of Japan was an onigiri bought in the lobby of the Hotel Nikko. It was day one of a fourteen-day quarantine and I had to arrange my dinner. I bought the cod roe flavour, certain that I liked cod but unsure about the concept of “roe”. 

Nori grows soggy and unpalatable when applied to rice for an extended period. So, onigiri are ingeniously wrapped in a way that separates the two by weaving the plastic packaging between rice and seaweed. When one pulls at both ends, the barrier slips away and nori embraces rice. 

Back at the Nikko Plaza, my inexperienced self made a mess of this first onigiri. The brittle nori broke into pieces as my barbarian hands tore at the packaging. Nori flakes at my feet, I bit into the rice ball and tasted Japan for the first time. 

Onigiri are one of the many irreplaceable components of the Japanese engine. Manufactured for greatest convenience, It’s a faux pax to eat food while walking here, but onigiri are one of the few exceptions. The densely packed rice is filling – I’m reminded of lembas bread, the Tolkein invention that fills the stomach of a grown man after one bite. 

They’re simple, even bland, but it’s this very banality that makes them special. Like so much Japanese food, onigiri proves that a dish doesn’t need to sock you in the mouth with spice or flavour to be delicious. I feel like this is one of the many incongruities I’ll never understand about Japan. 

At the time of writing, I’ve been here for two bags of rice, two tubes of toothpaste, four razors, one canister of shaving foam and twenty-two onigiri. I could spend a lifetime studying this country and still die ignorant of most of it. I could live here for decades and still be a visitor. These thoughts are equal parts enticing and isolating. 

Living here is sometimes like being in an aquarium and I can never really tell which side of the glass I’m on. I can press my nose against the pane and observe all I want, but try as I might, I’ll never be able to cross over. I am both the ogler and ogled, separated from a world (that stares back with the same confused intensity) by some invisible barrier that I can’t name. 

Perhaps that barrier is language. My Japanese is not, as the locals would say, jouzu. Although, I feel as though it’s more than that. For now, I take comfort in the fact that coming here has led me to onigiri. In the face of disorientation and an occasional twinge of homesickness, the presence of good snacks must mean I’m on the right track.