Grandmother's Secret Plan

Aiko's mother buckled her shoes and said, "Be good at Grandmother's house today."

Aiko was always good at Grandmother's house.

Well. Mostly good.

Grandmother was waiting at the door. She wore her apron — the blue one with the little white birds. Her eyes were crinkly and bright.

"Aiko-chan," she said. "Today I need your help."

"With what?"

Grandmother leaned down close. She whispered like it was the biggest secret in the whole world.

"We are making mochi."

Aiko gasped. She loved mochi. The soft, squishy, sticky rice cakes that melted in her mouth like sweet little clouds.

"But Grandmother," Aiko said. "Mochi is hard to make."

Grandmother patted her cheek. "That is why I need you."

First, they went to the kitchen.

Grandmother set a big wooden bowl on the table. THUNK. She set a heavy wooden hammer next to it. THUNK. She poured in the warm, steaming rice.

"Now," Grandmother said. "I will turn the rice. You will pound it."

The hammer was almost as tall as Aiko.

She picked it up. It wobbled. She wobbled. Her arms wobbled.

"Ready?" said Grandmother.

"Ready!" said Aiko.

POUND.

Grandmother's hands darted in and flipped the rice. Quick quick quick.

POUND.

Grandmother flipped again.

POUND.

The rice was getting smooshy. It was getting stretchy. It was getting —

"STICKY!" yelled Aiko.

The hammer stuck to the rice. Aiko pulled. She pulled harder. She leaned waaaay back and —

BOING — the hammer popped free, and Aiko sat right down on the kitchen floor.

Grandmother laughed so hard she had to hold her apron.

Aiko looked up. There was rice on her nose.

There was rice on the ceiling.

There was one tiny grain of rice on Grandmother's ear, and Grandmother didn't even know it.

They pounded more. POUND, flip. POUND, flip. POUND, flip.

The rice turned into one big, smooth, gloopy blob. It stretched like a pillow. It wobbled like a belly.

"Now," said Grandmother, "we shape."

They dusted the table with sweet white powder. Grandmother pulled off a piece of mochi and rolled it round and smooth between her hands. Perfect. Like a little moon.

Aiko pulled off a piece. She rolled it.

It looked like a potato.

She tried again.

It looked like a shoe.

She tried again.

It looked like —

"A caterpillar?" said Grandmother.

"It's a BALL," said Aiko.

Grandmother nodded very seriously. "Ah, yes. A beautiful ball."

She put it on the tray with all her perfect round ones. Aiko's lumpy mochi sat there looking very proud of itself.

They filled some with sweet red bean paste. They filled some with strawberries. Grandmother let Aiko put one whole strawberry in her mouth, and then another strawberry for the mochi.

By the time they finished, the tray was full. White and soft and dusted with powder. All of them round and beautiful.

Except one lumpy one.

Grandmother made tea. She set two cups on the table — one big, one small. She put the tray between them.

"Which one do you want?" Grandmother asked.

Aiko looked at all the perfect ones. She looked at the lumpy one.

She picked the lumpy one.

She bit into it. The outside was soft and chewy. The inside was sweet strawberry.

"Grandmother," she said with her mouth completely full. "This is the best one."

Grandmother picked up her tea. She took a small sip.

"It always is," she said.

When Aiko's mother came to the door that evening, Aiko was standing there holding a small box tied with string.

"What's that?" her mother asked.

"Mochi! We made it. I pounded the rice and it went EVERYWHERE."

Her mother looked at Grandmother.

Grandmother still had that one tiny grain of rice on her ear.

"She was very good," Grandmother said.

And her eyes were crinkly and bright.