Pie
by Barry O'Farrell
Photo by Linda Gould
“Dad, I want a pie.”
With this simple request, my son Takumi, whom I love dearly, became the exasperation of my life. All he wants is a good, old-fashioned, Aussie meat pie.
Takumi was almost two and a half years old when I was posted to the Australian office with my wife Yuki and my son for what was supposed to be three years. That is the standard rotation for any Japanese shipping line.
Due to various administrative circumstances, though, I became what is referred to as a “forgotten warrior” (in Japanese wasure rareta senshi) because I did not return to Japan for seven and a half years.
Yuki did not take it well when the notice of our return to Japan eventually came through, even though she knew it was inevitable. She had taken up golf in Australia and become very good. She eventually vice-captained the ladies’ team of her local club.
Due to the prohibitive price of both the initial membership and annual fees, the cost of playing golf in Japan is out of reach of the ordinary salary man. Corporate membership is the norm and is reserved for executives, which are overwhelmingly male. So, Yuki knew our return to Japan would mean the end of her golf playing. She put on a brave face in public, but expressed her disappointment in private. This was easily the most testing time in our marriage.
We seem to have weathered that particular storm, but I will admit, it has taken a toll on both of us. Slowly, our lives are settling back into the normal pattern of everyday Japanese life.
It’s been a little more difficult for my son. He was almost ten when we returned to Japan. The only life and country he had ever known was Australia. On a recent excursion, he said this:
“Dad, may I have a pie?”
“There are no pies in Japan. You can have something else.”
“But I want a pie.”
With this unexpected torment, I could see that this was not going to be the enjoyable, father/son walk and talk that I had looked forward to.
“I understand. We are going to your Grandma’s house for dinner tonight; she will have something nice for you.”
“No she won’t, just rice and fish.”
I persevered, “Do you know how many different types of rice we have in Japan?”
“I don’t want—”
“OK, I already said, you can have something else. Pick something else.”
“Sausage roll.”
“There are no sausage rolls in Japan. What about a hot dog?”
“Not the same,” Takumi said with a tone of disappointment. “Sausage roll is much better. Why don’t we have sausage rolls?”
We both lapse into silence and continue walking. Then I think of something which will change the subject and get me off the hook. “Would you like to go to the baseball?”
“Do they have pies there?”
Quietly, firmly I repeat, “There…are…no pies…in Japan.”
“They have pies at the cricket. And the footy. Good ones too… hot… tomato sauce if you want. You just help yourself to the sauce. Dad, I want to go home!”
“This is your home.”
“No it’s not. Australia is my home. With pies.”
“If I could get you a pie, I would. If I could get you a sausage roll, I would. Pick something else please, not a pie and not a sausage roll.”
“Pastie.”
“Something else,” I snap because I hadn’t seen it coming and he is really starting to get to me.
“Chiko roll.”
I can see an opening. “Spring roll is just like a Chiko roll.”
“Yeah, but spring rolls are little.”
“That’s so you can eat many of them.” I am thinking quickly now.
“But I like a big Chiko roll. I want to carry it in my hand. I want to eat it out of the special shiny paper bag. It tastes better when the bag has the name on the side. Makes it real.”
I stick to my guns. “We can get spring rolls right here. I’m sorry I can’t get you a Chiko roll, but we can have a feast on as many spring rolls as you like.”
Again, we walked in silence for a few minutes.
“Dad, I want a pie.”
I have a brain wave, “Ice cream. Let’s get ice cream.”
“Mochi?” is Takumi’s surprising answer.
“Excellent. Mochi is excellent,” I say with a sigh of relief, bending to hug my son. We vary the direction of our walk to buy mochi.
Yes, I want to guide my ‘Australian’ son as he becomes a Japanese man, but that can wait until tomorrow. For now, I shall enjoy these moments in between with this frustrating boy whom I love dearly.
“Dad,” from a mouth centered in a ring of ice-cream and pulverised rice, “Next time…can I have a pie?”
With this simple request, my son Takumi, whom I love dearly, became the exasperation of my life. All he wants is a good, old-fashioned, Aussie meat pie.
Takumi was almost two and a half years old when I was posted to the Australian office with my wife Yuki and my son for what was supposed to be three years. That is the standard rotation for any Japanese shipping line.
Due to various administrative circumstances, though, I became what is referred to as a “forgotten warrior” (in Japanese wasure rareta senshi) because I did not return to Japan for seven and a half years.
Yuki did not take it well when the notice of our return to Japan eventually came through, even though she knew it was inevitable. She had taken up golf in Australia and become very good. She eventually vice-captained the ladies’ team of her local club.
Due to the prohibitive price of both the initial membership and annual fees, the cost of playing golf in Japan is out of reach of the ordinary salary man. Corporate membership is the norm and is reserved for executives, which are overwhelmingly male. So, Yuki knew our return to Japan would mean the end of her golf playing. She put on a brave face in public, but expressed her disappointment in private. This was easily the most testing time in our marriage.
We seem to have weathered that particular storm, but I will admit, it has taken a toll on both of us. Slowly, our lives are settling back into the normal pattern of everyday Japanese life.
It’s been a little more difficult for my son. He was almost ten when we returned to Japan. The only life and country he had ever known was Australia. On a recent excursion, he said this:
“Dad, may I have a pie?”
“There are no pies in Japan. You can have something else.”
“But I want a pie.”
With this unexpected torment, I could see that this was not going to be the enjoyable, father/son walk and talk that I had looked forward to.
“I understand. We are going to your Grandma’s house for dinner tonight; she will have something nice for you.”
“No she won’t, just rice and fish.”
I persevered, “Do you know how many different types of rice we have in Japan?”
“I don’t want—”
“OK, I already said, you can have something else. Pick something else.”
“Sausage roll.”
“There are no sausage rolls in Japan. What about a hot dog?”
“Not the same,” Takumi said with a tone of disappointment. “Sausage roll is much better. Why don’t we have sausage rolls?”
We both lapse into silence and continue walking. Then I think of something which will change the subject and get me off the hook. “Would you like to go to the baseball?”
“Do they have pies there?”
Quietly, firmly I repeat, “There…are…no pies…in Japan.”
“They have pies at the cricket. And the footy. Good ones too… hot… tomato sauce if you want. You just help yourself to the sauce. Dad, I want to go home!”
“This is your home.”
“No it’s not. Australia is my home. With pies.”
“If I could get you a pie, I would. If I could get you a sausage roll, I would. Pick something else please, not a pie and not a sausage roll.”
“Pastie.”
“Something else,” I snap because I hadn’t seen it coming and he is really starting to get to me.
“Chiko roll.”
I can see an opening. “Spring roll is just like a Chiko roll.”
“Yeah, but spring rolls are little.”
“That’s so you can eat many of them.” I am thinking quickly now.
“But I like a big Chiko roll. I want to carry it in my hand. I want to eat it out of the special shiny paper bag. It tastes better when the bag has the name on the side. Makes it real.”
I stick to my guns. “We can get spring rolls right here. I’m sorry I can’t get you a Chiko roll, but we can have a feast on as many spring rolls as you like.”
Again, we walked in silence for a few minutes.
“Dad, I want a pie.”
I have a brain wave, “Ice cream. Let’s get ice cream.”
“Mochi?” is Takumi’s surprising answer.
“Excellent. Mochi is excellent,” I say with a sigh of relief, bending to hug my son. We vary the direction of our walk to buy mochi.
Yes, I want to guide my ‘Australian’ son as he becomes a Japanese man, but that can wait until tomorrow. For now, I shall enjoy these moments in between with this frustrating boy whom I love dearly.
“Dad,” from a mouth centered in a ring of ice-cream and pulverised rice, “Next time…can I have a pie?”
Barry O’Farrell is an Australian who enjoyed a career in Export. He travelled extensively in Asia export purposes. Barry enjoys writing in his retirement. Barry’s stories have appeared in Popshot Quarterly, Your Time Magazine, Hunnybee Lit, Cyclamens & Swords, The Flash Fiction Press, and Writers Grapevine. Most recently he had a story chosen for the Covid-19 themed anthology OUR INSIDE VOICES. One of Barry’s short stories was runner up in the 2018 Boonah Writers Festival with another runner up in the 2015 Arts Alliance Writers Competition.
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