Rekindling a family friendship across continents

I exited baggage claim at Tokyo’s Haneda Airport and scanned the crowd for a face I hoped I’d recognize. I hadn’t seen the man in 23 years, and my recollection of what he looked like came only from photographs – namely, the family pictures that came along with the holiday package he mailed from Japan every Christmas.

When I was growing up, my dad spoke to me of this man endearingly, as “your Japanese uncle.” My dad was working as an interpreter in Beijing in 1991 when he first crossed paths with Shuichi Kosuge, who was visiting the capital with a group of other Japanese lawyers. As my dad accompanied Mr. Kosuge’s delegation, the two became fast friends, bonding over a reciprocal curiosity about the other’s culture.

After my dad immigrated to Tennessee in 1993, Mr. Kosuge sent a holiday package – Japanese-made chocolates, gloves for cold Memphis winters, a handbag for my mom – to wish my parents a prosperous next chapter. My parents returned the gesture, and with that, two distant families cemented an annual tradition. Even as my parents and I relocated every few years throughout my upbringing – from Seattle, to Sacramento, and later to Hong Kong – the arrival of a package from Japan was one of the few enduring constants in our lives. Our little family’s Christmas observances were always a quiet affair, but Mr. Kosuge’s special gifts injected the holiday with a sense of worldliness and revelry. He felt to me like a mysterious Japanese Santa Claus, opening us up to a world of delicately packaged rice-cracker snacks and thoughtfully chosen cashmere scarves.

This summer, I traveled to Tokyo for some reporting. Before I went, I called my dad, who was in the middle of pruning the persimmon tree in my parents’ backyard in California, to let him know. He offered to write a letter to Mr. Kosuge, the only way they’ve ever corresponded, usually penning their messages in the recipient’s native language as a sign of respect. If he was in town and available, my dad suggested, perhaps I could pay Mr. Kosuge a visit. And if I had time between assignments, my dad added, maybe I could learn the Japanese art of making hoshigaki, or dried persimmons, while I was there. “Our tree always gives us more fruit than we know what to do with,” he said.

I was eager to finally see my dad’s friend again, but on the flight to Tokyo, I began to feel nervous. What do you say to a stranger who isn’t really a stranger?

I spotted Mr. Kosuge immediately. He stood at the front of the waiting crowd outside customs, holding a handwritten sign with my Chinese name. I approached him and waved; a look of recognition dawned on his face and then morphed into a wide grin. After an awkward pause, I said in Mandarin, “Long time no see!” He laughed at the understatement, eyes crinkling warmly behind his glasses.

On the train ride into the city, Mr. Kosuge reached into a modest tote bag he was carrying and pulled out a small photo album, which he handed to me. I opened it to see a picture of my dad, with more hair and fewer wrinkles, holding me as a preschooler. On the next page I was in my maroon middle school graduation gown, my parents flanking me. Then came my first high school flute recital, followed by my parents visiting the shimmering waters of China’s famed Jiuzhaigou National Park – their first solo vacation after I left the nest for college. Here were our most treasured memories and milestones, strung together with care by someone I barely knew.

My eyes began to feel warm as I realized that this album reminded me of another one, which my parents keep at their home in California. Every winter, my dad slides in Mr. and Mrs. Kosuge’s annual letter and photographs, mementos that chronicle the unfolding of our distant friends’ lives. All along, his family had been cherishing this long-remote friendship with as much care as my parents had valued theirs.

Later that evening, Mr. and Mrs. Kosuge took me to dinner at the sushi restaurant in my hotel. He told me that, after retiring, he spent five years living in China, teaching Japanese to Chinese teenagers. I asked if he’d studied Mandarin at university, but he shook his head. “I only started learning after that trip to Beijing when I met your dad. He deepened my curiosity about China,” he said. “None of that would have happened,” he added, “if it hadn’t been for your father.”

As we swapped stories, my Japanese uncle and I learned we are both enthusiastic home cooks. He told me he often makes Chinese food at home, especially the lighter, seafood-heavy fare of regions like Jiangnan, from which my dad hails. I thought about the Japanese ingredients and dishes, like natto and sukiyaki, that had been staples in our Chinese American household and wondered how much of that might have stemmed from their friendship. 

Mr. Kosuge and I also discovered that we share a love for persimmons, a fruit enjoyed in both Japan and China. After leaving Tokyo, I traveled around the Kansai region, where persimmons flourish, to learn the art of making hoshigaki. Workers peel and hang the fruit to dry, and then periodically massage the drying persimmons to coax the natural sugars to the surface and eliminate air bubbles. The slow and labor-intensive, yet simple and rewarding, process produces a luxuriously plush, jammy texture in the dried fruit, with subtly sweet notes of caramel and cinnamon. It’s a labor of love that produces a gift of exquisite taste and precious time.

Before bidding the Kosuges farewell, I invited them to visit my family in California, where they can help themselves to the persimmon tree anytime. Until then, I’ll be practicing the art of hoshigaki with my parents’ bounty of fruit, and perhaps we’ll include some in our annual Christmas package to the Kosuges. My Japanese uncle has been sharing with us a taste of Japan for more than two decades, and it’s about time we returned the favor.