I spent this past week listening to The Travelling Cat Chronicles, and I wasn’t expecting it to move me the way it did. The story felt gentle at first, almost simple, but as it unfolded, it touched something deep: about life, friendship, and the quiet strength of commitment. Maybe it resonates more now that I’m getting older, when the bonds that endure feel even more precious.

The narration was a big part of why it stayed with me. George Blagden’s voice carried warmth and nuance, making every moment feel personal; sometimes light and amusing, sometimes heartbreakingly tender. It’s rare to find an audiobook where the performance feels like an extension of the story’s soul, but this was one of those times.

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When two people you deeply respect, Glen S. Fukushima and Jackie Funasaki, nominate you for something, you pause. Titles and invitation-only honors have never been my thing. But this one? It means something.

Glen is not only one of the founders of the US‑Japan Council but a lifelong advocate for U.S.-Japan relations, a former trade negotiator, and someone whose leadership has shaped policy and business across the Pacific. Jackie is a powerhouse in the East Bay, a connector who brings people together with purpose and energy. She’s the kind of person who knows everyone, remembers what matters to them, and makes introductions that change lives. Her ability to build community is a masterclass in generosity and intention. Their confidence in me means more than any title ever could.Click below to read more!

Last Friday, I had the privilege of attending a Japan Society event featuring master carver Nambu Hakuun III, a living link to the centuries-old tradition of Inami woodcarving. Watching him work was like stepping into a dialogue between past and present.

When I lived in neighboring Ishikawa, I visited Toyama, though not Inami town itself, and remember being struck by its deep sense of history. Toyama Prefecture is known for its rich cultural heritage, from traditional crafts to breathtaking landscapes framed by the Tateyama mountain range. Still, I’m amazed at how much more there is to learn about Japanese craftsmanship. These artisans carry generations of skill, yet remain so humble and eager to share their craft. There’s no sense of ego, only quiet pride in preserving something beautiful for the next generation.

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Last weekend, my husband and I slipped into a small local theatre to watch Rental Family, Brendan Fraser’s latest film. We expected an evening of entertainment, but what we got was something far deeper: a quiet, emotional journey that stirred memories of our life in Japan.

From the opening scenes, the film transported me back to Tokyo: the neon glow, the hum of trains, the comforting sight of steaming bowls of food. It wasn’t just cinematic nostalgia, it was personal. I found myself remembering the taste of oden on a cold night, the rhythm of city streets, and the warmth of conversations that made Japan feel like home.

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When winter settles in and the air turns crisp, Japan’s kitchens come alive with comforting dishes that warm both body and soul. Among these treasures is chawanmushi, a delicate savory custard that feels like a quiet embrace in a porcelain cup.

The name itself is beautifully simple: chawan means tea bowl, and mushi means steamed. Put together, it literally means “steamed in a tea bowl.” This humble description hides the elegance of the dish, a silky egg custard infused with dashi, soy sauce, and mirin, often cradling surprises like shrimp, chicken, shiitake mushrooms, and a bright yellow ginkgo nut.

Winter in Japan has a way of slowing life down. The cold seeps into old houses without central heating, and you learn to layer up, to savor warmth wherever you can find it.

For me, that warmth came in the form of a steaming pot of nabé, my first taste back in Komatsu in 1997. What I love about nabé is how easy it is to make, even now that I live outside Japan. A simple broth, fresh vegetables, tofu, and a few slices of meat can turn any chilly evening into something special.

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Last week, I attended a Japan Society event featuring Jake Adelstein and his newest book, The Devil Takes Bitcoin. The room was packed, and the energy was electric, people asked sharp, fascinating questions that sparked deep discussion. If you’ve read Tokyo Vice, first published in 2009, you know Jake is a master storyteller: sharp, fearless, and utterly captivating.

Hearing him speak live reminded me why I’ve been a fan since his first book came out. He doesn’t just tell stories; he pulls you into them with his voice, his timing, and his ability to make complex truths feel immediate and real. And for me, it’s more than storytelling; it’s a reminder of what it means to stay true to yourself, even when that path comes with risk and resistance.

When I first moved to Japan, I’ll admit. odén didn’t win me over right away. A simmering pot of assorted ingredients like daikon, boiled eggs, konnyaku, and fish cakes floating in a light soy-flavored broth? It felt unfamiliar, and I wasn’t sure what to make of it.

But like many things in Japan, odén is a slow burn. Over time, I came to appreciate its quiet charm. Now, it’s one of my favorite winter comforts, especially when enjoyed sitting at the kotatsu, that magical heated table I wrote about recently. There’s something deeply grounding about gathering around a warm pot, watching steam rise as flavors deepen, and sharing bites with loved ones while your legs stay toasty under the blanket.

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