by Jasmine Shigemura Lee (she/her)

A windowsill is packed with takeaway containers of coco coir and little seedlings. They are turned each day so that each side can get some time in the sunlight. They are brushed and crushed releasing herby scents into the room; the leaves taste bittersweet.   

Nanny Shizue, also known as Obachan, once lived in a household goods shop in Kyoto, Japan. In the small street-side paths at the entrance, she cared for plants; acers, camellias, chestnut, magnolias, jinchoge, and so on, lined up in pots of different sizes. She took pride in the display.

I first stood outside in 2005, boiling in the heat and quenching my thirst with tea from a vending machine that has stood the test of time. The old wooden store is now a plastic jewellery shop. Cities change. A Starbucks now resides in the old machiya. I found these disintegrating photos of her outside my uncle’s house in a storage trolley on wheels being blown around by the elements. 

Thinking back to my memory of first being there, I imagine the cold glowing vending machine as a greenhouse, each drink being a plant specimen, roots suspended in transparent bottles. I suppose—unless the flavours are synthetic imposters—the sugar, the stevia, the peach, the grape, the coffee and the tea are all growing somewhere and I want to follow their journey. Tea is in the family.

I wonder if gardening runs in the family? My Japanese family has a history of tea growing. Grasping for links like a psychic, I wonder how much similarity is universal and how much is fate. My Irish family has a history of fortune-telling. Mixed feelings. Is it just because I noticed the connections? Does it matter? What flavours are synthetic and what are real? 

A chestnut tree Nanny Shizue looked after has overgrown and is cracking the concrete, a praying mantis wiggles around on the branches. You can buy roasted chestnuts in the Nishiki Market, the sweet scent travels onto the street. I once tried to roast them at home. They exploded—I had forgotten to score them. The burnt scent travelled out into the neighbourhood. 

One of the containers on my windowsill holds perilla frutescens var. crispa aka Shiso, a dark purple crinkly character. I knew this plant before, but only as a dried seasoning on rice. I also remember the umeboshi—the purple pickled plums my mum would get when we went to an Asian supermarket. I nurture the microgreens as a way of growing connections and accessing fresh flavours.

Nanny Shizue enjoyed looking after plants. I think of her watering the pots and I miss a past I never experienced because it’s from a story my mother told. There’s a familiarity in the plant life that I grew up around, acers, camellias, chestnut, magnolias, jinchoge. I can’t get the authentic experience that is rooted in location and time travel but I keep trying. There are photos of me when I was little in front of old paint buckets full of life. So much can grow in small spaces.