Soft as the first snowfall in Kyoto, mochi holds a story of patience, tradition, and the quiet joy of a shared cup of tea.
In a narrow lane behind Nishiki Market, where the air smells of pickled plum and fresh tofu, there is a mochi-ya (rice-cake shop) that has been in the same family for five generations. The current master, Kenji-san, begins his day at 4 a.m., soaking shiratamako in cold water before the city stirs.
Mochi-making is an act of controlled violence rendered graceful. The rhythmic pound of the kine (wooden mallet) against the usu (mortar) is a sound that signals good fortune — at New Year celebrations, the mochitsuki ceremony draws whole neighbourhoods into the shared task of pounding steamed glutinous rice into a smooth, elastic mass.
'They argue, and then they agree.' — A tea master in Uji, on matcha and mochi.
The magic is in the transformation. Dry white grains become something alive: glossy, yielding, impossibly smooth. Kenji-san shapes each piece with practised flicks, dusting with katakuriko to prevent sticking, tucking sweet anko into the centre with the efficiency of long habit.
Koko first encountered daifuku at a tea ceremony in Uji, where the bitter matcha and the soft sweetness of mochi created a conversation between opposites. 'They argue, and then they agree,' the tea master told her. She has never forgotten the lesson.
Back in her kitchen, Koko tested dozens of variations before settling on two fillings: a traditional red-bean paste and a matcha ganache. The skins are made to order. Like all the best things, they don't keep — they must be eaten fresh, ideally in the company of someone you love.