The Koji Kid

It wasn't the first time that I'd set foot in a muro, or koji-making room; nor was it the first time for me to touch koji rice. But I'd never gotten so up close and personal with it before.

Patricia and I had been given the responsibility of "cracking the rice" after it had cooled briefly, a process known as momi-agari. Using our hands, we roughly separated the rice clumps, allowing the grains to cool down and dry out before koji mold is sprinkled over the surface.

"These days, many ladies are in the sake business," Daimon-san told us as he demonstrated the comb-like action our fingers were to perform, "and that's great. You know, before, ladies often performed this kind of koji work."

"Why's that?" Standing on my tip toes, I leaned in to reach the center of the table.

"This job needs patience and care. Sometimes, we men don't have such patience. It is said that taking care of koji is like..."

"Taking care of a child," I said.

Daimon-san stopped for a moment, looked me in the eye, and pointed with his index finger. "Exactly. We must check the koji constantly...Handle the rice gently, like touching a baby."

We repeated this process once every hour. Over the course of the day, the rice changed dramatically, growing firmer, drier, and glossier with each treatment. As we turned the rice for the last time, I could hear the faintly plosive sound of the grains breaking up. It felt hard and a little bit sticky, like tiny pebbles dipped in vinyl.

Daimon-san returned to the koji room carrying a small, round container filled with koji mold powder. A greenish cloud followed him as he moved down the long rice bed, giving him a look that was half beekeeper, half shaman.

Once the koji spores had been adequately distributed, we heaped the rice into a great pile at one end of the table. Then, we wrapped it up in cloth to prevent the moisture from escaping.

"It looks like a baby in swaddling clothes," someone remarked.

Daimon-san glanced at me and nodded briefly, as if to say, "You see?"