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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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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There’s a kind of warmth that goes beyond temperature, a warmth that invites you to slow down, sip tea, and be present. That’s the magic of the kotatsu, a beloved piece of Japanese winter furniture that I’ve long admired and finally brought into my own home… with a little DIY twist.

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During a recent visit to Nashville, Tennessee, I was reminded of how deeply interconnected our world can be, and how mindfulness often lives in the quiet spaces between cultures.

What many don’t realize is that Nashville, known for its vibrant music scene and Southern hospitality, shares a special bond with Kamakura, Japan, as official sister cities since 2014. Kamakura, a coastal town just south of Tokyo, is steeped in Zen Buddhist history, home to ancient temples, the iconic Great Buddha and a serene atmosphere that invites reflection.

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A few weeks ago, I wrote about my Amtrak train ride through the Rockies: a slow, scenic journey that invited me to pause, reflect, and reconnect with the rhythm of nature. In that piece, I briefly mentioned another train ride that’s stayed with me for years: a quiet autumn escape to Nikkō, Japan.

I boarded the Tobu Limited Express from Asakusa early one morning, opting for a touch of luxury in the Green Car, Japan’s version of first class. Plush seats, quiet ambiance, and impeccable service made the ride feel more like a retreat than a commute. It was a stark contrast to my recent Amtrak journey through the Rockies, which, while scenic and soulful, had a more rugged charm. Both experiences offered space to reflect, but in very different ways. One polished and serene, the other raw and expansive.

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