I never planned to buy mochi that afternoon. Like many decisions in life, it was a result of sudden instinct and an uncompromising stomach.
The streets were starting to empty, the sun was almost setting, and I had just finished a matter that, if I thought about it, was actually not that important. But, as a wise man who knows who said, sometimes the unimportant things are the most fun.
At the edge of the sidewalk, there was a small cart with a slightly crooked handwriting, as if the owner was hesitant when writing: "Chocolate Mochi & Tiramisu." The letters were large, but still felt shy. Like a young man who was just learning to flirt.
I approached. The seller, a man with a smile that seemed too wide for his thin face, greeted me with a crisp voice. "The mochi is still warm, Miss. Just taken out of the steamer."
Ah, this is a trap. Warm food is always more tempting than cold food. I pretended to hesitate, but in my heart I had already given up. "Try the chocolate and tiramisu, two of each, Sir."
The seller stared at me, probably waiting for a reaction. I gave him a thumbs up. He chuckled. “It’s delicious, isn’t it? This is a hereditary recipe, Miss. From my grandmother.”
Suddenly I felt honored. Not because the mochi was delicious, but because I had just bitten into someone’s family history, haha.
