Yuri's hand stills in the middle of nudging a piece of carrot out of the way to get at an adjacent chunk of broccoli. But he doesn't hesitate for long before his hand starts moving again.
'I want to show my grandfather how to use them.' He's talking more to the rice than to Katsudon, but his voice is steady. 'When I was at home, he was asking me about the food I had at your house, and what it tasted like. So I was telling him about some of the things I ate there.'
A true statement, but not quite accurate. Nikolai Plisetsky might have asked a few quiet questions here and there, but his grandson hadn't needed much encouragement to describe everything he could about his short stay in Japan. About the katsudon, of course, so they could figure out how to make their experimental pirozhki best approximate the taste of the original dish. But also about having fish and rice and soup for breakfast, and smoky grilled squid on a stick, and greasy fried noodles slurped from a carton, and little rice dumplings made with sweet bean paste, and salty-sweet crunchy snacks from packages with writing that he couldn't read, and hot and cold tea that came in bottles from vending machines all over the place. And more than that, about Hasetsu itself, and how the fresh salt smell of the sea air was similar to and yet totally different from the air in St. Petersburg, somehow. About Yu-topia, with the outdoor bath that was sort of like the old neighbourhood banya, and how good the steaming hot water felt against his sore muscles after a long day of training. About Katsudon's parents and big sister, and Yuuko and her family. About the Ice Castle, and the waterfall, and the morning market and the spring festival and the shrine and the floats. (Even, a little awkwardly, about the red brocade good-luck charm tucked deep inside his skating bag, in a pocket where it wouldn't be damaged.) Everything, anything he could think of, while he pounded pork cutlets flat with a mallet and his grandfather kneaded a bowl full of dough, while the oil sizzled and the rice steamed.
Things he hadn't thought that he'd remembered. Things that probably weren't all that important. Even some things, like his performance at Onsen on Ice -- and leaving Japan alone, defeated, without Viktor -- that he didn't really like thinking about, let alone talking about. But he didn't want to leave anything out, when his grandfather was right there and listening.
'We never really had anything like this' -- a small circular gesture with the chopsticks, again indicating both them and the bowls of food -- 'near where I grew up. And he's never used chopsticks before. So I told him that I'd learn how to do it, and show it to him when I go home next time. Probably for a couple of days around New Year's and Christmas, if Yakov says I can.' It feels like he's said a lot, though he hasn't really said much of anything at all, but he finishes with a certain firmness that underscores his original purpose. 'So I decided to come here to work on it.'
He chooses to punctuate that final statement by digging into the rice and extricating the second piece of broccoli to jam into his mouth.
no subject
'I want to show my grandfather how to use them.' He's talking more to the rice than to Katsudon, but his voice is steady. 'When I was at home, he was asking me about the food I had at your house, and what it tasted like. So I was telling him about some of the things I ate there.'
A true statement, but not quite accurate. Nikolai Plisetsky might have asked a few quiet questions here and there, but his grandson hadn't needed much encouragement to describe everything he could about his short stay in Japan. About the katsudon, of course, so they could figure out how to make their experimental pirozhki best approximate the taste of the original dish. But also about having fish and rice and soup for breakfast, and smoky grilled squid on a stick, and greasy fried noodles slurped from a carton, and little rice dumplings made with sweet bean paste, and salty-sweet crunchy snacks from packages with writing that he couldn't read, and hot and cold tea that came in bottles from vending machines all over the place. And more than that, about Hasetsu itself, and how the fresh salt smell of the sea air was similar to and yet totally different from the air in St. Petersburg, somehow. About Yu-topia, with the outdoor bath that was sort of like the old neighbourhood banya, and how good the steaming hot water felt against his sore muscles after a long day of training. About Katsudon's parents and big sister, and Yuuko and her family. About the Ice Castle, and the waterfall, and the morning market and the spring festival and the shrine and the floats. (Even, a little awkwardly, about the red brocade good-luck charm tucked deep inside his skating bag, in a pocket where it wouldn't be damaged.) Everything, anything he could think of, while he pounded pork cutlets flat with a mallet and his grandfather kneaded a bowl full of dough, while the oil sizzled and the rice steamed.
Things he hadn't thought that he'd remembered. Things that probably weren't all that important. Even some things, like his performance at Onsen on Ice -- and leaving Japan alone, defeated, without Viktor -- that he didn't really like thinking about, let alone talking about. But he didn't want to leave anything out, when his grandfather was right there and listening.
'We never really had anything like this' -- a small circular gesture with the chopsticks, again indicating both them and the bowls of food -- 'near where I grew up. And he's never used chopsticks before. So I told him that I'd learn how to do it, and show it to him when I go home next time. Probably for a couple of days around New Year's and Christmas, if Yakov says I can.' It feels like he's said a lot, though he hasn't really said much of anything at all, but he finishes with a certain firmness that underscores his original purpose. 'So I decided to come here to work on it.'
He chooses to punctuate that final statement by digging into the rice and extricating the second piece of broccoli to jam into his mouth.