The Seine in the Kitchen

The steam vent on the rice cooker is a bit weak this morning. The beep is later than usual, and there are three round water droplets on the edge of the lid. When I poke them with my finger, one of them escapes.

I still don't know Paris, France. Only from television and maps. I'm probably mispronouncing some of the station names, too. Even so, when steam rises in the kitchen, an unknown city draws a centimeter closer. It's fine if it's just my imagination.

I pull the red thread on the rice bag and pour it into the bowl with a rustle. Today's rice is a little dry. Remembering that the corner of my rice paddle is chipped, I use the intact side to fold in some air. I don't make the triangles too sharp. A rounder shape is less likely to fall apart when carried, and it looks a bit like a bridge crossing. No, maybe it doesn't. Oh well.

My smartphone buzzed in my pocket. 'It's raining here.' A person in a distant city. The attached photo shows breadcrumbs on a bread plate, just the first joint of a finger, and a slightly dirty fingernail. It seems they're between tasks. I just mark it as read and take a sheet of nori. A damp sound. Not a 'crisp' snap, but a soft 'fump.' Pickled plum, kelp, salt. Today it's plum. When I press the pit with my finger, the old cutting board in the kitchen stays slightly indented. That's right, I wanted to replace this, too.

I try saying them out loud. 'Seine,' 'Montmartre,' 'Saint-Germain.' I can't quite get the vowels right. In the end, the easiest one to say is 'omusubi.' Which reminds me of 'musubu'—to tie or connect. Careful. It's drifting toward romance again. I pinch some white sesame seeds and let them fall from above like rain. It's impossible to get them even. They're uneven. Well, that's fine.

The route to France is in my search history. Narita or Haneda, which one? I like the look of the characters for 'Charles de Gaulle.' I look up the shortest connection time, but in the end, I don't save it. It won't be too late to press the button after the rice has cooled. Or maybe I'll never press it at all. Thinking this far, the smell from the sink's corner strainer pulls me back to reality. A piece of lemon peel. It was fried chicken last night.

Two triangles and one bale-shaped rice ball at the bottom of the lunch box. Even if the shapes are different, they line up when the lid is closed. The person in the distant city and I are probably like that. There are days when we fit perfectly, and days when a draft gets in. The edge of the nori is lifted by a millimeter. White steam rises from there. I decide to call it the 'wind of the Seine.' The saying 'finders keepers'—or in this case, 'namers keepers'—is convenient.

I open the window. A cloud's shadow on the roof across the way. Autumn. The sound of a mail delivery scooter. The crow's caw isn't standard Japanese today, either. My town doesn't speak French, but the particles of light have the same face everywhere. Saying they look like grains of rice might be an exaggeration. I lick the salt from my fingertip. A little salty. A little happy. The feeling of wanting to go somewhere and the feeling of wanting to live here mix on my tongue.

I type in the reply field: 'Tonight, when the moon comes out, let's look at the same moon.' I type it, then delete it. I type it again, and this time, I just save it. I don't send it. I wrap a rubber band around it twice. The white bands overlap, forming a shape like infinity. It doesn't mean anything profound. Just a habit.

When I step out the front door, the wind makes the first sheet of nori flutter slightly. I steady it and head toward the town's shallow river. The water is clear. It's not the Seine. Of course not. But it is flowing. Under the bridge, my footsteps echo back with a slight delay. When noon comes, I'll eat the first one here. The sourness of the pickled plum will push my back forward. Hopefully, not too hard.

I still don't know Paris. The day goes on without me knowing it. I might go eventually, or I might not. Even without deciding, the river in my kitchen flows somewhere every day.
If that day comes—I'll write this as the destination on my ticket.
'Charles de Gaulle.' And below that, in small letters:
'Destination: Undecided.'

I have participated.
Thank you.