A Moon Half Hidden by a Sweet Cloud

On Kyoto’s tsukimi dango, a Tokyo sky hemmed in by buildings, and the moon on my tongue

The moon is at its most beautiful in autumn. Everyone in Japan seems to agree on that.

The customary offering to that moon is tsukimi dango, moon-viewing rice dumplings.
In Tokyo, they are round, shaped in the image of the full moon, and stacked into a pyramid.

Round tsukimi dango stacked into a pyramid. Illustration from Irasutoya, a free illustration site.

In Kyoto, however, they are not round.

Each elongated dumpling is about two-thirds draped in anko, sweet red bean paste.
The shape is said to imitate satoimo, a kind of taro traditionally offered to the harvest moon. There is also a theory that the anko is a cloud drifting over the moon.

Seen that way, each dumpling is a moon half hidden by a cloud.
　

　
When I lived in Kyoto, the moon was always there.

Kyoto limits the height of its buildings, so almost nothing blocks the sky.
I would ride my bicycle across a bridge over the Kamo River to the university, with Mount Hiei looming in the distance, a muted blue.
Once night had fallen, I would cross the same bridge in the other direction by moonlight. In autumn, the air was so clear that the moon shone a pale white, and I could see the rabbit in it.
To me, that was simply how things were.
　

I still buy tsukimi dango from Sentaro, a Kyoto-born sweet shop, just as my grandfather did when I was growing up.

From the Isetan department store in Shinjuku, I walk straight into the underground passage and pass through the ticket gate. At my station, I duck under the elevated tracks, and then I’m home.

As the green tea steeps, it occurs to me: Wasn’t tonight supposed to be the full moon?
　

I haven’t looked.

I don’t even open the dining room window. I know that if I did, I would only see the window of the apartment next door.
　

I pour the tea into my cup and turn to the dumplings.

First come the soft bean skins of the tsubu-an, a chunky red bean paste. The scent of the beans rises gently.
Unlike mochi, the dumpling doesn’t cling to my teeth; it pushes back with a springy bite. Every mouthful feels substantial. Slowly, the fragrance of rice comes through.
In these dumplings, the anko carries the sweetness. The dumpling itself is only lightly sweet, and that sweetness deepens as I chew.

I find myself smiling.
　

I never checked if the moon was hidden by clouds tonight, but the scent of anko still lingers on my tongue, unmistakable.

This is enough.

My moon is right here.