Stomach peko peko? Dig into these Japanese food words

By YUKARI SAKAMOTO
Special to The Japan Times

One of the most enjoyable aspects of Japanese cuisine is how it stimulates the senses: exquisite presentation, delicious taste, enticing aroma, distinctive texture and unique sound.

The last one stands out most in comparison with Western food culture. While the sounds involved in the consumption of food are minimized in the West, for fear of embarrassment, they are celebrated in Japan — consider the noisy sound made when Japanese slurp noodles: tsuru tsuru (ツルツル).

The Japanese language is filled with words that imitate the sounds we make when eating. I learned many of them several years ago as a sommelier at Nihonbashi's Takashimaya department store, where colleagues would use them when talking to customers. I too began using this specialized vocabulary to sell wine. A very drinkable low-alcohol wine is one you can gabu gabu nomu (ガブガブ飲む, drink heartily) — reproducing the sound of gulping it. One that is a bit fizzy is shuwa shuwa (シュワシュワ), while a sweet, cloying dessert wine is beta beta(ベタベタ) — from the word bettari (べったり, sticky).

The sound an empty stomach makes (peko peko [from the verb hekomu, へこむ, meaning caved in]) gives us a way to say "I'm hungry" (Onaka ga peko peko, お腹がペコペコ). When thirsty, you can say, Nodo ga kara kara (喉がカラカラ, My throat is dry). The popular game character Pacman got his name in similar fashion: His mouth opens and closes rapidly (paku paku, パクパク) as he scurries across the screen.

Kitchens are filled with sounds such as koto koto (コトコト, a bubbling pot) and ton ton (トントン) — the rhythmic whack of the knife as cabbage is sliced on the cutting board for salad. Jyū jyū (ジュージュー) is the sound of the fat from wagyū (和牛) beef crackling on a hot grill. In summer, you may hear shari shari (シャリシャリ) — ice being shaved for kakigōri (かき氷, flavored shaved ice).

Not only sounds but also sensations have given rise to many Japanese food words. A steaming bowl of ramen is atsu atsu (アツアツ), from the word atsui (熱い, hot). Something cooked to just the right temperature, such as rice just out of the cooker, is hoka hoka (ホカホカ) — from the sensation of having steam touch your face. The feeling you get on your mouth gives rise to hoku hoku (ホクホク) as the description for the steamy, dense texture of yakiimo (焼き芋, hot baked sweet potatoes) or steaming kabocha (南瓜) pumpkin. And piri piri (ピリピリ) describes the sting in your mouth if you put too much wasabi on your sushi.

Staying with the tactile, tsubu tsubu (ツブツブ) describes the bitty feel of pulp in freshly squeezed orange juice. Toro (トロ), the fatty part of tuna, is known to have got its name from a customer of a sushi shop in Nihonbashi who described the melt-in-your-mouth texture as torōtto suru (とろーっとする); fatty pork belly (角煮, kakuni) that falls apart in your mouth is also toro toro. Pounded rice cake is mochi mochi (モチモチ, sticky), while udon noodles are often shiko shiko (シコシコ, chewy). Gomadōfu (胡麻豆腐, sesame tofu) that wiggles and jiggles is puru puru (プルプル). Rice that is dry, such as the jasmine variety, is pasa pasa (パサパサ), and fried rice that is moist but loose enough to be eaten with a spoon is para para (パラパラ).

Some words convey both tactile and aural senses. Saku saku captures the crispy feeling as well as the sound of the light breaded coating of a delicate tempura or tonkatsu (豚カツ, pork cutlet). Pari pari achieves the same with regard to thin potato chips or crisp sheets of nori. Meanwhile, look and touch are evoked with the description of slippery, sticky natto (納豆, fermented soybean) as neba neba (ネバネバ) and fluffy marshmallow as fuwa fuwa (フワフワ).

While all this may get your appetite going, there are contrasting words to sum up bad food experiences too. For example, if you forget to take the sand out of clams, jyari jyari (ジャリジャリ) describes the grit. A box of cornflakes left open on the counter on a humid day becomes funya funya (フニャフニャ).

Sitting at your local sushi counter, ask the chef for his osusume (お薦め, recommendation). He may tell you the shrimp (海老, ebi) is puri puri, with a nice resistance. And if you get to try fresh abalone (鮑, awabi), it is kori kori (コリコリ), chewy and slightly crunchy.

Next time you watch a television program about food, listen carefully. Chances are you will hear these words. Put them into practice. They will help connect you with those who make your food. And when you are full after a big meal, pat your stomach and say "pan pan desu" (パンパンです, full).

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Japan resident, get set for your date with dentistry

By DAVID HICKEY
Staff writer

They were four simple words that I never wanted to hear: "Ha wo warimasu, ne (歯を割りますね, I'm going to split your tooth, OK?)."




That day was the third installment in the gnasher (not slasher) trilogy "My Date with the Dentist." Parts one and two were short, painless affairs with a local haisha (歯医者, dentist), who dispatched my oyashirazu (親知らず, wisdom teeth) to history with a minimum of fuss. Once the kyokubu masui (局部麻酔, local anaesthetic) had set in, it only took my sensei (先生, meaning teacher, but also used to refer to any authority figure) a few minutes to crowbar the upper-right and upper-left third molars from their sockets. Not much blood spilled there.

But the third visit left an entirely different taste in the mouth. My usual dentist had already warned that the extraction of my last wisdom tooth — the lower-right molar — would be taihen (大変, an ordeal). He had examined the rentogen (レントゲン, X-ray), seen it was yoko (横, sideways) and sensed kiken (危険, danger). Better to have had it extracted when it had first pushed through my gums in my early 20s, he said. In any case, he washed his sheathed hands of the task, wrote me a shōkaijyō (紹介状, letter of introduction) and sent me rubbing my jaw to a major hospital in Tokyo with an entire floor dedicated to oral hygiene. This place, he assured me, would be better equipped if my haguki (歯茎, gums) refused to stop bleeding or the dentists damaged a shinkei (神経, nerve).

The new dentist was a baby-faced chap who we'll call Wakahisa in this article. He had graduated only a couple of years earlier. Long in the ha (歯, tooth) he wasn't. But he had a calming chairside manner, and I hoped his youthfulness meant he was some kind of prodigy of the pearly whites who had struck upon a revolutionary technique that inflicted no pain on patients during molar removal.

On a piece of paper, Wakahisa scrawled a few helpful words in both Japanese and English. They read: kansen (感染, infection); kusuri no fukusayō (薬の副作用, side effects — which I might have from the painkillers, anti-infection tablets and anti-inflammation pills I'd soon be taking); and, most alarmingly, mahi (麻痺, parathesia, where the nerve is damaged, sometimes causing long-term numbness in the mouth). Having no other option, I signed the form agreeing to the procedure.

A week later I was back in the chair, squinting under the harsh beam of the examination light.

"Ugai wo shitekudasai (うがいをしてください, Please gargle)," Wakahisa said, pointing to a cup of lukewarm water, then, "Taoshimasu, ne (倒しますね, I'm going to lower [the chair])." And the final preliminary: "Kuchi wo ō kiku akete kudasai (口を大きく開けてください, Please open [your mouth] wide)."

Once the anaesthetic had numbed my mouth, Wakahisa methodically set about carving up the inside of the back of my gob, slicing open the gum and removing the bone that hid the impacted canine. Every few moments brought a fresh twist of the knife.

"Tsukareru toki hidari te wo agete kudasai (疲れる時左手を上げてください, Raise your left hand if you get tired)," Wakahisa said, so I did, sitting upright to cough up the crimson river pooling in my mouth. The red splodge, some of it at least, landed in the washlet. Shards of bone winked back at me.

Wakahisa tossed aside the tissue connecting tooth to bone and gave a few pulls with some sort of grappling instrument I was too scared to look at. My entire cranium rocked with each heave. The tooth wouldn't budge. So he started drilling. Actually, I think he used a minichainsaw. The whiff of burning from the friction smelled like napalm.

More than two hours I was in that chair. There are worse agonies in this world, I imagine — giving birth, waterboarding, listening to a Mika Nakashima album. But I didn't just lose a tooth that day, I lost a part of myself.

He got it out in the end, of course. For all the trouble it caused, the tooth looked surprisingly small, but then it had been mangled into three sorry-looking chunks. Wakahisa pointed out the dark, inflamed tissue that had been causing me pain. Part three of "My Date with the Dentist" was over. Tears, I'm not ashamed to say, welled in my eyes.

When it comes to wisdom teeth, kyo dekiru koto wo ashita ni nobasuna (今日できることを明日に延ばすな, Never put off till tomorrow what you can do today). Take my advice and get on the phone. Here are four more simple words: Yoyaku wo onegaishitain desu (予約をお願いしたいんです, I'd like to make an appointment.)

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What the nation's girl sports managers offer Japan

By KAORI SHOJI

One of the best-selling books of the past month is called "Moshi Kokoyakyuno Jyoshi Manejyaga Drucker no Management wo Yondara"(「もし高校野球の女子マネージャーがドラッカーのマネージメントを読んだら」"If the Girl Manager of a High School Baseball Team Read Drucker's 'The Practice of Management'") by Natsumi Iwasaki. The novel follows Minami, manager of her high school baseball team, as she uses Peter Drucker's famous tome on management to guide the team to success. The book sheds light not just on the issue of management but also the profound world of high school girl managers.




Many able-bodied and intelligent jyoshi (女子, teenage girls or a woman with the energy and spirit of a teenage girl) dream at least once in their lives of being a manējyā (マネージャー manager), preferably of a baseball, basketball or soccer club (the sweatier the better). But having made it through the gates, they're often appalled at the incredible effort and workload involved.

A good friend of mine was the manager of the danshi kendō-bu (男子剣道部, boys' kendo club) in high school, and within six months she had developed a jyūen hage 十円はげ, a bald spot the size of a ¥10 coin) on the side of her head and had undergone a mōchō no shujyutsu (盲腸の手術, appendectomy) due to sheer, undiluted stress.

My friend was functioning on about four hours of sleep, worked for the team through weekends and holidays, and was trying to keep up with homework as well. It got to the point where classmates chipped in to help by taking home piles of dougi (胴衣, kendo wear) to wash. The next day they would haul the bundle to some tournament out in Yamanashi Prefecture or another distant location.

As soon as she was out of the hospital, my friend was back at her managerial duties. Under her care and support, the kendo team matured from a jyakushō (弱小, weak and small) local team to a top contender with 40 members. The guys took the credit, but we knew that if she hadn't been there for them all the way, the outcome would have been different. Such is the power of a good jyoshimane (女子マネ, abbreviation for girl manager) — personally, I think Drucker has little to teach in terms of people skills, dedication or decision-making.

Going through the physical and mental wringer during high school prepares the jyoshimane for the trials and hardships that will assail her later in life. She's a cut above mere jyoshi athletes doing bukatsu (部活, extracurricular sports activities). At the end of the day, the athletes get to put the blood, sweat and tears behind them. But the work of a jyoshimane never ends.

While her first task is always dealing with mountains of laundry (the team's uniforms, socks and, in many cases, underwear) that she washes and dries on the line behind the school building day after day, she's also expected to recruit new talent, deal with complaints, look after injuries, keep tabs on individual behavior (smoking, drinking and brawls will immediately disqualify a team from a competition), console guys who didn't make regulā (レギュラー, regular team-member slots) and encourage those who did. She's also the liaison between the coach and team, is called into important strategic meetings and assembles practice menus.

Additionally, she attends every game, standing by with a huge cooler of water bottles and energy drinks. During summer training, she's expected to dish out food (especially breakfast) and clean up afterward. Multitasking doesn't begin to describe what a jyoshimane goes through; she's the mother, girlfriend, therapist, doctor, boss and handmaid for a team of sweltering males.

The jyoshimane can reap the rewards later; the experience becomes a valuable personal asset (many companies will spot that on a resume applying for a job) and by the time she graduates, there's very little about male psychology that she doesn't know — which really saves time and worry later on when she is on the dating scene.

On the other hand, many jyoshimane suffer from moetsuki shōkōgun (燃え尽き症候群, burnout syndrome). Life after three frenetic years being Superwoman often looks flat, boring and devoid of challenges. My friend from high school says everything after her years as a jyoshimane seemed too easy. She was constantly asking the world, "koredake? (これだけ, is that all?)" and chomping at the bit, so to speak. She's now a lawyer, mother of three and has her eye on a possible political career. It's a good thing. What the guys of Nagatacho (永田町, Japan's political nerve center and district where most of the ministries are located) really need is a jyoshimane to set them straight.

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MATTER OF COURSE 'KAKIZOME' Practice perfects New Year's calligraphy

By ALICE GORDENKER


Pencils and computers haven't replaced brushes at schools -- brush work is alive and well.




I just walked into the kitchen with my arms full of groceries and nearly tripped over my 10-year-old, who was kneeling on the floor. "What the heck are you doing down there?" I demanded.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" he said, not unpleasantly. "I'm doing my winter-vacation homework."

Sure enough, he had his school supplies spread out on top of old newspapers. He was doing his kakizome practice.

Kakizome is the first calligraphy of the year. On Jan. 2, those who still observe this tradition use brush and ink to write something auspicious. Maybe their resolution for the new year. Or a poetic phrase that evokes the season.

The word "kakizome" is written with the characters for " write" and "first." Japan celebrates all kinds of "firsts" in the new year, including the first visit to a shrine (hatsumode) and the first dream (hatsuyume). There is even due ceremony paid to the first stock trade of the new year (daihakkai).

Schools are closed for winter vacation on Jan. 2, so schoolchildren write their New Year's calligraphy after school reopens. Standard winter-vacation homework is to practice writing their kakizome phrase several times.

"So what are you writing this year?" I asked my son.

"We had a choice between genki na ko (healthy, happy child) and akarui kokoro (bright heart)," he replied. "I'm doing 'genki na ko' because it's got fewer hiragana."

I said I'd have thought he'd take the one with fewer kanji if he wanted an easier phrase.

"Nope. Hiragana are harder to get right because they're curvy."

Calligraphy is taught in all Japanese schools, and is part of the kokugo (national language, i.e., Japanese) course of study, not part of the art curriculum. There is a separate calligraphy textbook for every grade. Students get two or three lessons per month in calligraphy.

First- and second-graders aren't coordinated enough to handle a brush, so they work with pencils. Their calligraphy lessons focus on the rudiments of good handwriting. They learn to sit up straight with their feet flat on the floor, and how to hold a pencil correctly. They are taught to pay attention to the shapes of letters and characters, and to write neatly using the correct stroke order.

Students get their first calligraphy brushes in third grade. At the beginning of the year, the school sends order forms home so parents can buy a shuji setto (calligraphy set). The set we bought for our son is pretty standard, and cost 2,300 yen.

I'd never seen a school calligraphy set before. This one had two brushes rolled up in a little bamboo mat, a felt pad to provide a soft surface under the paper, and a weight to hold the paper in place. I was particularly interested in the suzuri, a rectangular inkstone with a well at one end. To make ink, you put a little water in the well, wet an ink stick and rub it on the smooth surface rising out of the well. But schoolchildren rarely do this now. Most of the time, they use the liquid ink that comes with the set.

In the upper grades, students work on the finer points of good calligraphy, such as spacing between letters, and the proper beginnings and endings of each stroke of the brush.

Although children are expected to brush letters in standard ways, teachers do encourage them to reflect on the artistic nature of calligraphy. They point out that Taro's calligraphy will always be different from Atsushi's. And that no matter how many times Suzuko brushes the character for yuki (snow), each effort will be as unique as a snowflake.

Despite the widespread use of computers and word processors, beautiful brushwork is still prized in Japan. Particularly good examples of student calligraphy are often displayed in the school lobby or the principal's office

Most schools hold a special calligraphy event in early January, called kakizome taikai. At our school, the students come to the gymnasium, one grade at a time, and spread out their supplies on the floor. Everyone faces the same direction. First- and second- graders do their New Year's writing in pencil, but the older students write with a fat brush purchased especially for kakizome.

Students write their phrase several times. Each child selects his or her best effort, which is displayed outside the classroom. I love visiting the school in January because every inch of hallway space is papered with fluttering kakizome calligraphy.

I stood in the kitchen doorway and watched my son do his homework. For a moment, it looked as if he might start a character with the wrong stroke, but I held my tongue. I didn't want to repeat the mistake I made a year ago.

Last December, when he was in third grade, his kakizome homework was a terrible struggle. He was supposed to write "Fujiyama" in three relatively simple characters, but he couldn't get it right. Exasperated by his tears and crumpled papers, I snatched the brush to show him how it's done.

Mind you, I had never done calligraphy before. But I assumed an adult would have better coordination and control. Wrong! I couldn't make the brush do what I wanted. My Fujiyamas looked worse than his.

My son gently took his brush back. He showed me how to hold the brush upright. How to move it slowly to control the tip. Humbled, I watched as he produced his best Fujiyama yet.

This year, I didn't interfere with his kakizome homework. And on Jan. 2, when no one is around, I'm going to try my hand at my own New Year calligraphy. I've already chosen my phrase. It's not at all the kind of thing one normally writes for kakizome, but I'm going to brush a Confucian saying: Kosei osoru beshi.

It means, "Youth should be regarded with respect."
Alice Gordenker is a Tokyo-based writer and the mother of two American children attending Japanese public elementary school.

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'EXAM HELL' Getting Into The Rat Race in Middle School

By ALICE GORDENKER

My children are back in school after two weeks of winter vacation. We went skiing and took a few day trips around Tokyo, but the boys spent most of their vacation playing, reading and relaxing. Some of their school chums, however, had no break at all. They spent the entire "holiday" studying for middle-school entrance exams.




Take their friend Hiro, a sixth-grader who will take the entrance exams for five middle schools. Hiro is not one to wait until the last minute to study. For several years now, he has attended a juku (private "cram" school) after school and on weekends to prepare for the exams.

But since middle-school exams are held in January and February, winter vacation is the last chance for a big push. Hiro's parents paid 55,000 yen for a toki koshu (special winter-vacation course), which consisted of eight days of intensive classes. Hiro put in eight-hour days at juku, then went home for dinner -- and three or four hours of homework.

Sound like a lot of studying for a 12-year-old? Maybe, but Hiro's parents didn't think it was enough. Like many other parents, they forked out an additional 48,000 yen to put Hiro in the juku's shogatsu tokkun (New Year's special review). While the rest of Japan took off for the annual New Year's holiday, Hiro and his classmates went to juku every day for another five days, from 8:30 in the morning to 5:15 in the evening.

Why would anyone put a child through this? And is it really necessary to study so hard to get into middle school?

A little background: By law, Japanese children must receive a minimum of nine years of schooling -- six years of primary school and three years of middle school. If this is all done in public schools, it is basically free. High school is not compulsory, but almost all children continue on for three years of high school. Parents pay for high school, although public schools are cheaper than private schools.

Why make the switch to private education for middle school?

The main reason is to avoid the high school entrance exams. Most private schools have both middle and high schools. Since the high school fills most of its places with students from its own middle school, it admits very few new students. Although kids from public middle schools do win a few places at prestigious private high schools, the odds are tough. It's easier to get in at middle-school level. If a child gets in at middle-school level and does reasonably well, he can stay on for high school without taking another entrance exam. Hiro's first choice, like a few other private middle schools, is attached to a good private university. Kids who keep their grades up can continue straight into the university without ever taking another entrance exam.

If Hiro can just pass the middle-school entrance exam, he'll be able to "ride the escalator," as it's called, into one of Japan's best universities. His parents feel this justifies pushing him so hard now. But is it really necessary for a child to study even on New Year's Day? Are the exams really so difficult?

They are. I just flipped through the last five years of exams for a well-regarded middle school. I didn't have to pull strings to get copies of the exams; all it took was a trip to the bookstore. Past exams for hundreds of middle schools are put out in book form by private publishers. There is no standardized exam, and each middle school develops its own.

The exams I looked at were hard. They used kanji that aren't taught in elementary school. They required knowledge of current events. Rote memorization alone wouldn't get you through these tests -- you need to be able to think and extrapolate to answer the questions. In fact, I think the questions were more difficult than anything that appeared on the standardized SAT exam I took when applying to American universities. Harder, too, than anything I studied when I was at a Japanese university.

I understood why you pretty much have to attend a juku to prepare for the exams. The material is far more advanced than what is taught at any elementary school.

This is the "examination hell" that gets so much press coverage outside of Japan. Foreigners may find it shocking, but Japanese are more accepting. They tend to see the exam system as difficult but fair because anyone who works hard can earn a place in a good school.

I asked several kids how they feel about preparing for the exams, expecting to hear major complaints. I was surprised by their answers. It's hard, they admitted, but juku is fun. The teachers are really good, and the lessons are more interesting and challenging than what they do at school, they said.

Parents, too, tend to be positive. They may have mixed feelings about the exam system and having to push their kids so hard, but they think the experience is good for their kids. They are pleased that their kids learn to work hard, rise to the challenge and master difficult material.

And to put things in perspective, not every Japanese child goes through this. Last year, 20 percent of sixth-graders in Tokyo took middle-school entrance exams. In suburban areas around Tokyo, the figures were lower: 13 percent in Kanagawa, and 9.3 percent in Chiba and Saitama. In the rest of the country, even fewer children take middle-school exams.

Would I put my kids through this "examination hell"? I would not. I believe childhood should be a time for exploration, not intense academic work. I would like to see my kids work really hard someday, but I hope it would be when they are old enough to set their own goals.

However, I'm American and intend for my kids to return to the U.S. education system after elementary school. What would I do if I were Japanese and wanted my kids to go to a Japanese university?

That's a tough choice that I'm glad I don't have to make.

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Moles

By ALICE GORDENKER

Dear Alice,

I'm sure I'm going to get a lot of flack for even asking, but after five years in Japan I can't sit on this question any longer. What the heck are those huge moles so many Japanese have on their faces? I don't mean the occasional freckle or demure beauty mark — I'm talking about enormous, protruding monster moles! I can't begin to tell you how many Japanese I know, both men and women, who have big black moles on their faces. Are these kinds of moles specific to Japanese skin? Doesn't it bother people to have moles in such a visible place? Why don't they have them taken off?

Jim W., Fukuoka

Dear Jim,

You won't catch any flack from me. I've wondered about that myself, and judging from my mailbox, so have quite a few other foreigners living in Japan. And it's not like you can just go up and ask your friend with a whopper of an eye-stopper why the heck she doesn't get that thing removed.

Let's start with the basics. The Japanese word for mole is hokuro, but if you hang out with doctors you might want to learn the medical term: shikiso saibo bohan (literally, "pigmented cell mark," and properly translated as "melanocytic nevus"). A mole is a growth on the skin formed by clusters of melanocytes, which are the skin cells that produce melanin, the pigment that gives skin its color. I looked all this up, and more, in preparation for an interview with Chieko Mori, a dermatologist at the Shirono Laser Clinic near Ebisu Station in Tokyo.

The first thing I learned is that Japanese are not molier than thou.

"The density of melanocytes is quite similar among all racial and ethnic groups," Mori explained, "but in more darkly pigmented individuals these cells produce more melanin, which makes the nevus appear darker."

We were speaking in Japanese, and the doctor must have noticed I was having trouble with all that unfamiliar vocabulary because she rephrased. "In other words, Japanese don't get more moles than other people, but since our skin produces more melanin than that of Caucasians, the moles we do get tend to be dark brown or black and are quite noticeable against our relatively light skin. And, for various reasons," she continued, "Japanese are less inclined to have moles removed."

Most Japanese live with their moles, even if they don't like them, because they're afraid it will be painful and expensive to have them removed, according to Mori. Until about 10 years ago, when laser technology was introduced from the United States, the only way to get a mole removed in Japan was to have it cut out with a scalpel. That's a scary procedure that requires stitches and leaves an obvious wound.

Laser removal heals faster, and involves little or no pain, but it's still pricey because Japanese national health insurance doesn't cover removal, by any method, unless the mole poses a health risk. Charges at the Shirono Laser Clinic are typical: ¥10,000 per millimeter of mole, thus removing a mole the size of a pencil eraser would cost about ¥50,000. That's a fair chunk of change.

There are also a number of superstitions that discourage people from removing moles, the most common of which is that messing with a mole will cause it to turn cancerous (hokuro o ijiru to gan ni naru).

"That's simply not true," Mori assured me. "If a mole has been there a long time, and hasn't changed in shape or color, there's virtually no risk of it turning cancerous whether you finger it or remove it or just leave it alone."

Some people also believe that facial moles, particularly those located in the center of the face, are somehow connected to the brain.

"Once we reassure them that the mole is not cancerous, they want to leave it where it is," Mori said. "They don't want to risk disturbing the brain."

Another popular belief is that removing a mole will cause one's luck to change (hokuro o toru to unsei ga kawaru), and they don't mean a change for the better. There's a whole branch of fortunetelling called hokuro uranai in which character and fortune is divined according to the placement of moles on the face or body.

A mole on the stomach means you'll be lucky in love, while a mole in the middle of the nose forewarns a predisposition to marital troubles. But more often than not, facial moles seem to be taken as signs of good fortune. For example, a mole near the mouth is said to mean that you'll never go hungry. A mole on the ear means you'll have plenty of money.

These cultural beliefs certainly help explain what seems to be a general tolerance of moles in Japan. And plenty of Japanese people like moles, on themselves or others, as evidenced by the term hokuro bijin (a beautiful woman with a mole). There are a number of well-known actresses who sport prominent facial moles, although having looked at the photos, I'd classify their little friends more as "demure beauty marks" than "monster moles." Examples include Rie Miyazawa, who has a mole near her nose; Yuko Takeuchi and Otoha, who have dark spots on their chins; and Asuka Seto and Miki Nakaya, who have beauty marks by their mouths. There are even attractive manga characters with moles, and that's obviously not an accident of nature but a deliberate decision by their creators.

My favorite defense of moliness was offered by my friend Yasuko, who's got quite a biggie under her left eye. She was horrified when I asked, gingerly, if she'd ever thought of having it removed.

"Gracious, no!" she cried. "I've had this mole so long it's become my shirushi (the mark by which one is known). If I died without it, when I get to heaven my old friends wouldn't know me, and I'd have to spend all eternity alone!"
In Japan, black moles on the palms of the hand and the soles of the feet have been found to turn cancerous at a higher rate than moles in other locations. If you or someone you know has a dark spot in either of those locations, please consult a doctor. Puzzled by something you've seen? Send a description, or better yet a photo, with the address where you saw it to: whattheheckjt@yahoo.co.jp or A&E Dept., The Japan Times, 5-4, Shibaura 4-chome, Minato-ku, Tokyo 108-8071.

http://search.japantimes.co.jp/cgi-bin/ek20071120wh.html

Fasting is Hefty's Secret Way of Escaping Metabo

By KAORI SHOJI

I t's not often I get to watch my brother seethe and fume and look thoroughly uncomfortable — and I wasn't going to pass up the opportunity.




Growing up, I had suffered too often in the glare of his nit-picking scrutiny, so carefully concealing a grin under a mask of sisterly concern, I gently asked him to share his troubles with me.

"Indayo, guchi wo yuttemo. Kite ageru! (It's OK, you can complain to me. I'll listen!)"

He heaved a big sigh and spoke just one word in an almost inaudible whisper: metabo (fattiness).

Ah, metabo. The dastardly, dirty word. The most dreaded to appear on the colloquial wordscape since maybe chugoku yasai (vegetables grown in China).

Escape for those in a certain age bracket is impossible. My brother, who turned 40 last week, is now officially eligible for the shin kenko shindan (new health checkup) that subjects men over fuwaku no toshi ("the age when one is free of indecision"), or 40 years old, to a metabo kenshin (examination).

Men who take this exam have to endure the indignity of having a tape measure wrapped around their bellies to find out their haramawari (stomach circumference).

The cutoff point that determines whether or not a man is metabo is deemed by higher powers to be 85 cm, which at this very moment fills my brother's heart with bitterness.

"85 cm nante otokoni shitemireba futsudayo! (85 cm is a perfectly normal number for a guy's midsection!)," he says.

Having been on the judo team during college and then a quarterback for his company's football team for 10 years, my brother is what you might call a fine figure of a man. My private nickname for him is "Hefty," or in Japanese: "nikuman (meat dumpling)." I love him, but that's what I call him.

Anyway, Hefty figures the only thing to do is fast for three days prior to the examination, wear a corset, get everything over with and then quietly retreat to the nearest izakaya (pub) for a daijokki (a stein-size mug of beer) and a huge plate of negima (spring onion and chicken on a skewer) — not a very creative or healthy way to combat the metabo issue, but I refrained from pointing this out. Kazoku ai (familial love), you know.

Metabo, of course, comes from metabolism, and when the word first made its foray into the collective Japanese conscience, metabo was simply the Japanified abbreviation of that word. Before long, however, it spread to mean himan (obesity) or chunen butori (middle-age fat).

Even my girlfriends use it to describe the area on the upper arms. "Miteyo, kono metabo! (Look at this fat flabbiness!)," they exclaim, after which we each grab a handful of each other's metabo chunks and pull with many whoops of laughter. I have to tell you, though, that such pastimes are naively innocuous compared to the surreptitious visual ferreting out of each other's metabo, then looking smugly away from the offending mass of flesh and sucking in one's own tight stomach muscles at the same time.

My brother's major gripe is: "Yaseteru yatsuga sonnani erainokayo (Are skinny guys that great?)." This is a question that I treat as purely rhetorical, on par with "Is Paris a city?"

There's no getting away from the fact that skinny guys are praised. What's more, they are cossetted and treated like some exotic extraterrestrial, deigning to walk the earth for a while and maybe shop for some snazzy D&G sportswear that displays their long slender limbs to full advantage.

You may argue that Japanese guys are plenty skinny, and enforcing a waistline of 85 cm or less seems unnecessarily harsh (it's the lowest figure among industrial nations). However, a study by Nihon Ishikai (Japan Medical Association) shows Japanese males are at a higher risk than men elsewhere in the world because of their tendency to accumulate fat mainly around the stomach. This is hazardous to circulation, damages the immune system and heightens the possibilities of cancer.

So staying healthy means staying skinny. Not surprisingly, the kenko iryo shijo (the health and fitness medical market) is booming, fueled in part by a keen sense of panic: It's 85 cm or bust. Personally speaking, I'm rooting for my brother.

"Hayaku shindemo i kara oishi gohan, tabetai! (I don't care if I die soon, I'd rather eat tasty food!)," is how he puts it. Show 'em, Hefty!

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