Gastronomy is based on temporality. Pumpkins are eaten in winter, mushrooms – if it rains – in autumn, and sardines in summer. We search with unconscious nostalgia for that flavor that brings back the sensations of the first times, that reminds us of the moment we live in and who we are. We are irremediably linked to the flavor, textures and aromas with which we have grown up. In haute cuisine, chefs are obsessed with their own and unique temporality, because the temporality for a Spanish chef is not the same as that of a Norwegian chef; Nor does that of an Italian have to coincide with that of an Argentine chef. The general temporality, which we call spring, summer, autumn and winter, differs in each place in the world and is individualized in the being, making them unique and personal; but there is something that unites them, the concept of: everything begins and everything ends.
“There are different terms to describe what state of seasonality a food is in: The hashiri and the sakari, applied to gastronomy could be translated as the young, acidic and tempting fruit, the beginning of the season; he nagoriHowever, it announces the end, the last days of that already overripe ingredient that announces the farewell of the season,” can be read in Nagori, nostalgia for the season that ends, by Ryoko Sekiguchi (Periférica publishing house). The book has arrived in stores like that wave of reflections on the meaning of time, that idea, sometimes shipwrecked, of “wanting to eat what the earth gives us at every moment.” However, in supermarkets and neighborhood stores, the ingredients are crowded together like a sample of world flavors, where everything seems timeless and possibly so. When it is summer in the southern hemisphere, it is winter in the north. Food traveled from one end of the world to the other, making time an eternal trompe l’oeil.
Buying seasonal produce is a way to contribute to a healthier ecosystem, it is our grain of sand to stop climate change. However, on most occasions, our daily basket is organized more than thinking about the seasonal ingredient, the dish that we are going to prepare. “It is what in Japanese cuisine is called deaimono‘things that are found’ (…) The deaimono It requires considering the ingredients as beings in their own right: it is necessary to know the character of each ingredient (…)”.
This essay, Nagori, poetic and reflective, questions the sense of temporality, makes us think about the importance of the seasons in our state of mind and the relationship of the seasonal product with our memories. “Seasons are bridges that link us with other living beings. We ourselves, to a lesser extent, live under the influence of changes in season and temperature, humidity and luminosity.”
The book puts temporality and its ephemeral meaning on the table: what exactly is a seasonal product? The product as we find it in the markets? What is the maximum distance that a so-called seasonal fruit can travel? At what point in their life cycle do tubers and citrus fruits, which are preserved for several months, stop being seasonal?
“Seasons do not exist in absolute terms, in an independent way: they are announced by specific elements, such as flowers, fruit and vegetables. When we stop perceiving the seasons, emotions disappear. We may feel bewildered, terrified, upset or sad. Or worse still: we can become insensitive,” reflects the author of the work.
Sekiguchi, originally from Tokyo, has been living in France for more than 20 years, where she works as a translator and food critic. She has several works written in French, some collections of poems and for this, Nagori, received the Rungis des Gourmets Prize and the Manga, Livre Prize in 2018. The splendid translation is by Regina López Muñoz. The essay at times seems like a haiku conceptual, with a light rhythm, which takes us through its 120 pages that could not end in any other way, but with the oratory of a great menu: the dinner of the 100 ingredients on August 19, 2014 at Villa Medici (Rome). “Although I have made this book give voice to what is so fleeting and evanescent that is the season, when composing this humble text of ingredients, I also wanted to preserve in writing the trace of that ephemeral evening. My intention was to write down those ingredients, beings all the more alive because they shared a part of our time in this world, like we write down the names of people: so as not to forget them. The imprint of the seasons, what those ingredients went through with us.”
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