Mibuna Pickles: The Green That Made Senmaizuke Make Sense

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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Mibuna: A Kyoto Green That Lives Between Pickles and Time

This morning I had a plan: yesterday’s cold rice, a few pickles, and a simple ochazuke. I opened the fridge while the roasted tea warmed up—and found seven different jars quietly fermenting. Some were so old I honestly couldn’t remember when I made them, so I did the only reasonable thing: taste everything.

[PHOTO SUGGESTION 1: Open fridge / multiple jars fermenting. (From the original article: ‘seven kinds of pickles’)]

That’s one of the best things about pickles: they don’t stay still. Day by day, texture tightens, aroma shifts, and sourness slowly arrives. Salt protects the vegetables from spoilage, and lactic acid bacteria—working inside that salty environment—build the clean acidity that makes “real pickles” feel alive.

Some people dislike the sharp edge of older pickles. I get it. But I’m the opposite—I’m drawn to pickles that have aged into a little personality. Old cucumber, eggplant, fukujinzuke, shibazuke, suguki, green chili, small onions… When there are enough of them, you can make a classic Kyoto-style relish called *kakuya no kōko*.

[PHOTO SUGGESTION 2: Chopping pickles on a board / knife on the counter. (From the original article: ‘kakuya no kōko’ scene)]

A Kyoto trick: kakuya no kōko (old-pickle relish)

The idea is simple: finely chop a mix of old pickles, season with ginger and soy sauce, and let the flavors settle. If you like, add sesame or green shiso. The rhythm is the point—knife sounds in a quiet kitchen, a sip of tea, a little nibble while you work.

How Mibuna entered the story

After a quick breakfast, I started prepping senmaizuke—Kyoto’s famous paper-thin turnip pickles. I had kombu from Rishiri (a tip from a chef at Ajikichō), red chili, Shōgoin turnips, salt, and sweet vinegar. Then I realized something I’d never properly asked: the green leaves that come with senmaizuke—what are they, exactly?

I looked it up and discovered the truth: those greens aren’t turnip leaves. They’re **mibuna**—a Kyoto green. Senmaizuke is snow-white, and mibuna is placed beside it like a pine branch in a New Year’s arrangement. It’s a small detail, but it makes the whole dish feel intentional.

[PHOTO SUGGESTION 3: Senmaizuke with the green leaves (mibuna) beside it.]

A pickling rule I trust (for greens like Mibuna)

Greens can be surprisingly forgiving if you keep the logic clear: salt, pressure, time. If you’re using a pickling jar, here’s a practical baseline:

• Salt: start around 2–3% of the vegetable weight (adjust to your taste and how long you want to keep it).
• Press: a real weight helps the water come out fast and keeps texture crisp.
• Time: quick pickles can be ready within hours; a deeper taste comes with a night or two.
• Finish: when it gets too sharp, don’t throw it away—chop it into relish with ginger + soy sauce.

The moment I went looking for “old Mibuna”

Mibuna pickles often play a supporting role next to senmaizuke, but they’re a Kyoto classic on their own—crisp, elegant, and dangerously easy to keep eating. Then a thought hit me: if I love older pickles, why haven’t I met an “old mibuna” yet? Surely it exists—deeper sourness, a little bitterness, more depth.

I checked a nearby pickle shop and—of course—it was there. Aged mibuna (*hinezuke*): the bright green had settled into a calmer brownish tone, like it had finished a long job. They told me it was seasoned with ginger and soy sauce—again, the same logic as *kakuya no kōko*.

[PHOTO SUGGESTION 4: The aged mibuna pickles at the shop (hinezuke).]

Back at home, the taste was different from younger greens—more layered, more grown-up. That’s the thing: mibuna has stages. And once you notice that, you start wanting to build your own little timeline in the fridge.

Tonight’s small deposit of time

So I made a fresh batch that day. Two jars, lids tightened—and I put a small hope inside them. I don’t know what kind of year it will be, but I like the idea that I’ll meet these pickles again later, as something older, deeper, and slightly transformed.

[PHOTO SUGGESTION 5: Two jars / lids being tightened / the start of a new batch.]

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