A quick hello

Pickles guy here—Tomonori Tanaka.

Some people call me **Hakko Shisho** (hakko = fermentation, shisho = master).

I live in Kyoto, and I make pickles almost every day.

This blog is a record of those small daily scenes—so you can taste “time” in ordinary food.

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Kabura (Japanese Turnip): The One That Turns Crisp in an Hour

[Insert Photo 1: Fresh small kabura with greens—ideally still dusty from the field / market basket shot.]

Kabura—Japanese turnip—shows up like a short seasonal whisper.

When the weather warms, it appears, it disappears, and suddenly you’re thinking, “Wait, did I eat enough of that?”

Turnips are gentle vegetables, but kabura has a special texture: clean, crisp, and a little juicy when it’s fresh.

The greens are not decoration either—they’re part of the dish. In Japan, I often treat the whole thing as one unit: root + leaf, pressed together, and turned into a small preserved staple.

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A press-pickle that’s almost instant

This is my favorite kind of pickle: not vinegar-pickles, but Japanese salt pickles (tsukemono)—where salt and pressure pull water out, tighten texture, and let flavor start moving fast.

[Insert Photo 2: Kabura inside the jar with kombu—before pressing. The “setup” shot.]

For kabura, I keep it simple:

• Salt: **about 2–3%** of the vegetable weight
• Weight: a firm press (the steadier, the better)
• Extras: **kombu (kelp)** is my default; a little chili is optional

Slice the kabura into bite-size pieces, salt it, add kombu, and press.

When you press properly, water rises quickly, the surface becomes glossy, and the taste shifts from “raw” to “ready.”

Often, it’s already good within an hour—especially when the kabura is young and crisp.

[Insert Photo 3: After pressing—liquid rising, vegetables settling. Close-up of the crisp surface.]

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A small technique I love: wrap the greens

Here’s a detail that feels very Japanese: use the greens to wrap the root pieces, then press that bundle down.

It’s the same logic as some Kyoto-style pickles—leaf becomes structure, and the whole thing ferments as one quiet shape.

[Insert Photo 4: Greens wrapping the kabura pieces (a “bundle” shot).]

You don’t need to do this every time. But when you do, the greens soften beautifully, and the whole pickle feels more complete—like you didn’t leave any part behind.

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The 30-second version (for busy days)

Sometimes you don’t even want to wait an hour.

In that case: slice kabura thin, sprinkle salt, and rub lightly for about 30 seconds.

It’s not “finished pickles,” but it’s a fast shift in texture and taste—and it often saves the vegetable from becoming fridge-fog.

[Insert Photo 5: Thin-sliced kabura + salt in a bowl (hands in frame if possible).]

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How I eat it

Kabura pickles are at their best when you don’t overthink them:

• White rice + kabura + a tiny touch of soy sauce
• Next to grilled fish
• With sashimi: wrap a slice of kabura around the fish for a crisp, clean contrast

[Insert Photo 6: Kabura pickle served with rice OR wrapped around sashimi—simple plate, clean light.]

This is what I mean by “taste time.”

A vegetable changes, quietly, without spectacle—and your dinner suddenly has a new rhythm.

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A fun note: the giant turnip story

If you grew up with the fairy tale about a giant turnip that nobody can pull out of the ground—there’s a good chance the “turnip” in that story is actually a rutabaga.

And in some places, people used rutabagas (not pumpkins) to carve lanterns for old harvest traditions.

I like these details because they remind me: vegetables are culture, not just ingredients.

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Want to keep tasting time?

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• **Use the tool I use**: See Picklestone (the press-pickling jar behind many of these scenes).
• **Work with me**: For menus, workshops, or editorial features—contact Hakko Shisho.