Kishibori Soy Sauce

This is a premium soy sauce aged for three years in oak barrels.

You should just buy some.

Until recently I've only had the mass produced soy sauce such as Kikkoman even living in Japan. I believed its flavor was meant to be salty and harsh. My parents kept soy sauce around permanently. They even bought it in tin rectangular gallon containers much as Italians buy olive oil.

But now that I've tasted the time-taking more mellow version I cannot go back. It's a very nice soy sauce.

So, if aging three years in an oak barrel is good then four years would be even better, no?

No.

I tried the even more expensive type aged for four years and it's too mild. It's almost non existent. Its punch is completely obliterated. I'm eager for my bottle to get used up. It's almost gone. I end up using more of it to get an appreciable impact.

I'm on my second bottle. I bought this kind then the 4-year kind and now this kind again. 

Boy, I didn't realize that I use this much soy sauce. It's not the most important condiment in my kitchen. 

A splash here, a splash there, four tablespoons here and there, a little puddle here and there and it adds up fairly quickly.

Based on the reaction of women to my little boxes of Egyptian chocolates, I figured that women would really dig this unique presentation. They like ordinary things wrapped extravagantly or at least uniquely, they like thought put into presentation. They like packages strung together with twine, raffia, ribbons and bows. They like little cards describing the product. 

They just do. Shut up, they just do. 

They actually saved the little boxes I made. A few brought back their boxes for me to refill with chocolate tablets with Egyptian designs such as mints. 

See, I could never have anticipated that.

So I bought these bottles of soy sauce as gifts for various women. 

Weird, right? 

But it works!

It works as a gift.

My brother told me his wife loved it. She loved the bottle. 

But when you remove the wrapping to get at the soy sauce then you're left with an ordinary bottle and the memory of the unique packaging. 

Does the soy sauce make a difference? Can the women tell the difference? Does it matter? Is it a value? 

Johnny Row

My brother reported his family had a soy sauce taste-off. They compared this three-year, the four-year that I sent them, and ordinary mass produced soy. He has two young boys.

Results were divided. Half the family preferred the milder 4-year and half the family preferred this. 

So far, all the other feedback I've received was, "Thanks for sending me the soy sauce." 

I did not realize until I looked at my Amazon order history how much of this stuff that I bought. Nine bottles. Three bottles were for myself. So that's, what? Six bottles purchased as gifts. 

Amazon order history on the next page

And now I would like to tell you an unrelated story.

True story.

Last night I was sitting there with the Regular Show cartoon running on Amazon Prime trying to fall asleep. I am imitating Muscle Man's voice imagining speaking to a dog that I do not own. I am visualizing the dog reacting to me when I put on the Muscle Man voice.

I am sleepy. But this thing in my lungs feels uncomfortable when I  lie down. My rib cage gets compressed and it squeezes uncomfortably so I have to be really sleepy to tip over and sleep.

It's kind of funny, actually. You see the videos of small children falling asleep in their highchairs or somewhere beyond their regular place and they nod then zip back then nod and zip back. That's what I do. That's what I was doing. Trying to reach the point of exhaustion and sleepiness so that I can ignore the discomfort and simply sleep.

So I was in that space late at night when there was a knock on my door.

"Coming!"

I have to come back to earth. I must come back to my place in time. I have to convince my body to stand up. I must find my balance. I must coordinate my legs, direct them to move. Each step is a separate instruction. Halfway to the door another light knock.

"Coming! I'm getting there."

Wearing a loose gray sweatshirt over a form-fitting black t-shirt and black boxer briefs, I open the door.

I look totally hot even when I'm a mess.

A man is standing there and he hands me a small plastic bag and he asks me to sign his cell phone.

Seeing that I'm having difficulty comprehending, he says, "Just leave a straight line."

So I do.

I hold his phone and I go zip in the space.

He hands me a small plastic bag with a wrapped deli sandwich inside.

He is satisfied that his mission is completed.

I'm happy to have some kind of sandwich.

As he starts to walk off I say, "The thing is, I don't recall ordering a sandwich."

Although I've been thinking about ordering a sandwich and it would have been likely. I think about ordering things all the time. I actually do order things all the time and I'm in an ordering phase right now due to this pneumonia or whatever it is in my lungs. I'm trying to wake up to the awareness of exactly what it is that I ordered that brought this man to my door.

And how did he penetrate our impenetrable fortress? These Ninjas are quite gifted.

I wish that had enough sense to ask him where this delivery came from.

He had waited so long for me to answer the door. He interrupted the process of me falling asleep. He might have even woke me up. I don't know. My mind was half in and half out. Literally. Back and forth. My body was collapsing. Then brought back to function. And now he is required to check his details.

He studies his phone. "This is _____ address?"

     "Yes."

"This is _____ apartment?"

     "Yes."

Well then. Here we have it. I ordered, he delivered. I should give him a generous tip.

I'm thinking, it sure looks like I ordered this. Can't wait to see what it is. I'm sure it will be great. I'm certain I will like it. I like having this sandwich. Even though I don't know what it is.

How simple. But I would have ordered more. Certainly. That's how I roll.  I would have ordered two sandwiches, one for later. I would have ordered a side. I would have added a salad or a slaw. I would have ordered a few extra drinks in cans or bottles. I would have made the delivery worthwhile.

But this person didn't.

The delivery man scrolls through his phone back and forth.

"We have two addresses for this guy."

Now he has to make another delivery. He looks very discouraged. Downtrodden. Beaten.

"Sorry for disturbing you."

     "That's okay. No problem." Because it was fun.

Other people dragging me into their confusion is fun.

But how odd for me to hand back the plastic bag holding the sandwich when I came so close to eating it.