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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Komatsuna: The Quiet Leaf That Makes Morning Feel Clean

If there’s a vegetable I keep respecting more over time, it’s **komatsuna**—Japanese mustard spinach.

It’s not flashy. It doesn’t try to be the star. It’s a **supporting actor** that makes everything around it calmer and clearer.

[Insert Photo 1: A fresh bunch of komatsuna—simple, honest greens. (Prefer morning light.)]

I don’t cook komatsuna as often as I probably should.

Stir-fry? Soup? Sure—but somehow it doesn’t become “a dish” in my head.

But once you pickle it, it changes.

It becomes the kind of thing you want nearby—like a quiet tool on the counter.

And that’s when komatsuna starts doing its real job: **supporting your rhythm.**

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A pickling rule I trust

Here’s the method I rely on for komatsuna pickles:

• Cut the leaves and stems into **~5 mm pieces** (small is better).
• Salt: **3%** of the total weight.
• Add a small piece of **kombu (kelp)**—about the size of a matchbox.
• A little **chili** is optional, but it helps.

[Insert Photo 2: Komatsuna chopped to ~5 mm + salt on a cutting board OR in a bowl, with kombu visible.]

Press it down well. Within hours, water comes out and the greens settle.

You can eat it soon—but I like a little patience here. Leave it for a few days.

A small surprise: **after about a week, the bitterness softens** and the flavor becomes smoother.

It’s still green, still crisp—but the edge relaxes.

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A quick history detour (with a little skepticism)

The name *komatsuna* is said to come from an old village called **Nishi-Komatsugawa** (in today’s Tokyo area).

There’s also a popular story: the shogun **Tokugawa Yoshimune** tasted komatsuna soup at a shrine during falconry, liked it, and named the vegetable after the place.

I’ll be honest: these kinds of origin stories often feel too neat.

So I looked a little closer.

Falconry wasn’t just a hobby. For a ruler, it could be training, performance, and politics—public discipline disguised as leisure.

If Yoshimune really did eat a bowl of soup after that, I can imagine why it landed:

**simple heat, salt, green bitterness, and relief.**

[Insert Photo 3: A “history” visual—shrine gate / old map / falconry-style silhouette. Doesn’t need to be literal.]

Sometimes a vegetable gets named not because of destiny, but because someone was tired—and it tasted like being brought back to life.

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How I actually eat it

This is my favorite komatsuna moment:

**6 a.m.**

A pot of rice porridge—about **70% rice, 30% water** (so it’s still “rice,” not a thin soup).

Then I add a pinch of salted, chopped komatsuna.

As the porridge warms, the komatsuna stays crisp.

It makes a sound—almost like stepping on frost.

And that crunch wakes you up without shouting.

[Insert Photo 4: A simple bowl of rice porridge with komatsuna—steam visible, minimal styling.]

Komatsuna doesn’t demand attention.

It just pulls your body back into the right place: warm, awake, and not rushed.

That’s why I like pickling it.

Not because it’s “traditional,” but because it turns a cheap, ordinary green into a **reliable morning handle**—something you can grab when life is messy.

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