4 July 2025

Back home years ago, my dad and I were sitting on the porch in Stone Harbor on the 4th of July, in the heavy salt air of summer.

We were being treated to an historical air show, courtesy of god knows who. Military planes from every era. Then came the B-17 bombers flying overhead.

The old man, looking through his binoculars, let out an “Oh shit!” and laughed. Hadn’t seen those since the war, dropping hellfire on Osaka.

In spite of the horror of it all, I can’t express to you how funny it was. His laugh was always contagious. Of course no one else got it. He would unleash his WWII gallows humor on these suburban khaki short gatherings as if playing to a sold-out audience. Their horrified reactions made it even funnier.

“Listen, we had to eat BREAD MADE FROM GRASS. And ROTTEN WHALE.” While he tore into his natto hamburger in the most vicious way. Diane was put off her cole slaw. I slammed my forehead to the table, laughing into my napkin.

The war was his Genesis, the origin story that accounted for every one of his attributes. Noisily inhaling his food. I had to eat fast before the bombs dropped! Hoarding rice. Rice farmers all got sent to war. We were starving! Hating cornbread, polenta, grits. American GI’s gave us cornmeal in buckets. Taste like shit!

This is all I could think of when someone asked me if we’d be open on the Fourth of July.

Of course, I said, returning to the present moment. Why the hell not?

I’ve always considered Ozu to be an embassy on foreign soil. Except no government would dare to claim us, nor would I claim any myself. My credentials are scrutinized heavily at customs. Suitcases filled with katsuobushi. Cuban cigars in the diplomatic pouch. Is that 9 vodka miniatures in your pocket, sir, or are you just really thrilled to be at LAX?

Be careful what you wish for. Making potato salad has become a dreaded Sisyphean task. Jaimie passed the baton to Lucie and now she hates it as well.

I referred to it this week as “the only good thing to come from the war.”

“What about Japanese denim?” Jack said, and it quickly devolved into that scene from The Life of Brian.

Right. Apart from potato salad, denim, jazz, and the automotive industry. What have the Yanks ever done for us?

What luck to have been born half a Jap. And to be seasoned in South Jersey. I couldn’t explain it to you, but I could make you a side of potato salad that brings back memories you never had.

You are dangerously close to learning the secret—Japanese food doesn’t exist. It was all made up. Restaurants opened and closed, and some of it became tradition.

For the sake of team morale, we needed a night off. No dinner this Friday, but we’ll be serving somen for lunch. The sacramental dish of the second story Stone Harbor porch. You were in with the Ozawas if you knew its taste. The Garden State Parkway is bumper to bumper. Once you’ve left home, you can’t go back!