Growing up as a child in Japan, in the winter my family and I would often go to my grandmother’s house on Awaji Island on long weekends. The small cottage was built on a hill overlooking the ocean, and behind was lined with mikan (Satsuma mandarin) trees as far as the eye could see. 

My grandmother was an amazing woman. She was very quiet and didn’t want to be the center of attention. She was an avid cook who just wanted to make sure that the kids were always fed, and the grandkids were taken care of. She was the enabler, not the life of the party. 

She certainly had her hardships, having lost her husband at a very young age, and raising her children on her own, but she never looked back. She always focused on moving forward, being curious, and thinking about what she could engage in next. She was a doer and owned her own futon shop. So, in that sense, I guess she was ahead of her time. As a single mother, after the War, she was determined to educate all her children, including her daughter, my mother. 

In the early 1970’s the Japanese government was incentivizing people to farm mikan trees. So, being the industrious business woman that she was, my grandmother took advantage of this and got a government grant to plant over 200 mikan trees on her property.

I remember at 5-6 years old, in the winter spending time in these mikan groves, when the fruit was abundant on the trees. We’d spend endless hours playing hide-n-seek and tag amongst the trees, just absolutely immersed in a sea of mikans. Many of them were strewn on the ground, the overripe smell permeating the air.  We got to pick as many mikans as we wanted, often peeling and eating them right then and there. We’d collect as many as we could carry in a basket and would bring them back to the house. 

The house was typically Japanese, having an exterior big long hallway that was partially concealed with big glass doors. I remember there was this one area of the hall that we didn’t really use, except to store the mikans. My mother would line the floor with newspaper and put all the mikans that we picked - it was a good 15 feet worth of fruit - on there. She’d leave them to sit in the sun and dry. Our favorite thing to do was to eat the mikans until our fingers turned orange from peeling so many fruits. We ate them all the time, as many as we wanted. 

My mother would also put the mikans in a mesh bag and put them in the ofuro, the traditional Japanese bath, to soak for hours before the family took turns bathing in the evening. Back then you didn’t have instant hot water. Instead the bath water was heated over hours by an external furnace and the mikans would slowly be warmed over time. I can vividly recall walking into the tub room and there being this amazing citrusy smell.

Overall, the smell of the mikan is very vibrant and bright for me. Pure joy and happiness, like sunshine, which was helpful in the dreary, cold winter months. Whenever I smell it, I get a warm feeling inside. 

The association is one of spending those days on the island in this little cottage that my grandmother built, with my siblings, my parents, cousins, and friends. Because there were only two bedrooms, a great room, and a small kitchen, we’d sleep on futons on the floor, filling the entire house with bodies. We didn’t care. In the summer, us kids even slept outside on the deck. It was a feeling of happiness, comfort and safety.

If the scent had a sound, what would it be? Melodic Jazz.

If the scent had a color, what would it be? Bright orange.

If the scent had a texture, what would it be? A cotton ball.

If the scent could give you advice, what would it tell you?

To remember the happy days and cherish the memories so you can make new ones. Let the smell be a catalyst for new smells, new memories. It’s about not just living in this memory of the past, but to always be creating new memories.