Onozaki, Miso Producer

Like all our other miso [1] producers, the Onozaki family, who make Clearspring Organic [3] Barley [4] Miso, use natural, time-honoured methods to create a deliciously wholesome food. Here, Japanese food experts John and Jan Belleme describe their first, memorable encounter with the Onozaki family, and detail the production methods that have remained unchanged for centuries.

Hoping to learn the art of making traditional miso, in the autumn of 1979, we set out to find a miso master with a big heart and a willingness to teach. With the help of Akiyoshi Kazama, president of Mitoku Company, we found such a man - Takamichi Onozaki. From his family shop located in a small village in rural Japan, Onozaki produced over 100 tons of organic barley and brown rice [5] miso each year. This was a sizable amount, considering the simplicity of his equipment and size of his labour force. Our eight-month stay with the Onozaki family had a profound, positive influence on our lifestyle, health, and appreciation for traditional Japanese food and culture. The first few weeks in our new surroundings were overwhelming - a cultural vertigo. However, Mr. Onozaki’s faith and patience combined with our driving passion to learn his craft, helped ease our transition into this unfamiliar new world.

A long heritage
The Onozakis made - and still make - traditional miso; traditional in the sense that their basic production methods have been the same for generations. Although they had purchased some simple equipment to accommodate the ever-increasing demand for their product, the family’s methods for making koji [2] (cultured grain used as a starter) and fermenting the miso were the same as those used by their ancestors.

Although we knew our apprenticeship would involve hard work and sacrifice, it was much more intense than we had anticipated. The hours were long and exhausting, and our bodies were often exposed to temperatures of extreme hot and cold. At first, it felt as if we were being stretched beyond our limits of endurance. Taking inventory of sore body parts became a morning ritual. But within a few months the Onozaki lifestyle - living under natural conditions with little heat and strong food - soon provided us with the strength and stamina we needed to continue.

Koji: the essential ingredient
Each weekly miso making cycle was almost exactly the same. First, the koji was made; then the soybeans were prepared. At the end of the week, the beans were mixed with koji, salt, and water, to start the fermentation process.

On the first day of the cycle, just under 700kg of pearled barley or lightly milled rice were washed and then left to soak overnight. In the morning, the grain was steamed, and then allowed to cool until it was just warm to the touch. Next, Aspergillus oryzae spores, called tane koji, were hand rubbed into the warm grain. Once inoculated, the grain was transferred to a long crib that was set in the middle of the koji room - a dark place with thick walls and a dirt floor. After being covered with four or five blankets, the inoculated grain was left to incubate overnight.

A labour of love
By morning, the grain had begun to ferment, and the almost 700kg mountain was held together loosely by the growing Aspergillus mould. The grains were then separated through a hand-rubbing process in which the cooler rice on the surface of the mound was mixed with the warmer rice from the bottom. Usually four people performed this step, bending over the low table, sliding their open hands over the warm rice or barley, and working in a rhythm. They started at one end of the mound in the early morning, and by the afternoon, they had worked their way to the other end. This timeless ritual offered an amazing sight - people huddled around the low table, working in silence over the steaming koji. With scarves covering their hair, the workers stopped only occasionally to comment on their progress or to wipe the perspiration from their faces. To our surprise, this job became a labor of love for us. We welcomed the ever-changing sweet smell of fermenting rice or barley, as well as the soothing warmth we felt when putting our cold hands into the warm grains on frosty winter mornings. Most of all, we derived much satisfaction from working with nature to produce a delicious, living food.

After the grain was mixed and separated, it was put in small wooden boxes that were placed around the walls of the koji room in “bricklap” stacks - an arrangement that encouraged proper air circulation. Temperature and humidity, both very important to good koji growth, were regulated by the opening and closing of ceiling vents throughout the night. By morning, the surface of the grains was covered with a fine delicate web of glistening threads. The koji was mature.

The main event
Attention then turned to preparing the beans. Nearly 700kg of hand-selected soybeans were washed, cooked, cooled, and crushed by late morning.
Then Takamichi-san’s wife, guided by years of experience, directed the mixing of the crushed beans with koji, salt, and water to make 50kg of unfermented or “raw” miso. Each 50kg batch was divided in four buckets and relayed to a person standing on a ladder atop a huge six-ton-capacity cedar vat. With a loud thud, the first few batches hit the bottom of the empty vat. Within two or three hours, the seven-foot-tall vat was almost full.

The slow fermentation process began almost immediately. Some miso masters added 5 to 10 percent of their mature miso - called seed miso - as a catalyst to start fermentation. Takamichi Onozaki did not; he relied on the bacteria already present in his 200-year-old vats. For generations, these bacteria had been naturally selected; they were strong and well adapted for miso fermentation. Aided by enzymes in the koji, the bacteria started the long, natural fermentation of the soybeans and rice. Proteins and oils were gradually digested and transformed into simple amino acids, fatty acids and simple sugars. As the miso darkened, a delicious, almost black liquid called tamari gathered in pools around the inside of the vat. The rapidly multiplying bacterial population, eager for a source of food to support its growing numbers, converted complex carbohydrates to maltose, glucose, ethyl alcohol, and organic acids, giving off a deep, rich aroma that filled the room.

Under the natural conditions of the open miso storage room, the fermentation rate adjusted to the changing seasons. Lying almost dormant in the winter, the bacteria were gradually awakened by the warmth of spring, and then stimulated into a frenzy in the heat of summer. Takamichi-san’s miso had the benefit of at least two summers.

Each day after work, we ate dinner together and then talked or studied for a few hours. We then took hot baths before settling into our futons. By 10:30, only the cats playing on the roof disturbed the tranquility of the darkened house. Like a mantra, the calming effects of our daily life gave us strength and peace of mind. It was a natural rhythm, a reflection of nature, like the slow rising and falling of breath during deep meditation.

Miso Heritage
As autumn turned to winter and the temperature of the unheated house dropped below 0°C, a heated table - the kotatsu - became the centre of our nightlife. It was on one such night toward the end of our stay, while huddled together on the living room floor, that Takamichi-san showed us his ancient family scroll. Beginning on the east coast of Japan around 1200 AD, it recorded the birth, life, and death of each first-born son of the Onozaki family, down to Takamichi-san’s father, who had died just two years earlier. In ancient script, it told of the family’s early farming existence, its gradual ascent to samurai lordship, and the continuous struggle to maintain its domain against overwhelming forces. A blank space, reserved for Takamichi-san, was at the far end of the scroll. Takamichi had no sons; he was the last Onozaki. This was, no doubt, on his mind as he shared this family treasure with us.

A month later, not long before we prepared to return to America with our new craft, Tamagachi-san presented us with a beautiful black-lacquered box that had a picture of his kin’s coat of arms on the lid. We believed it was his way of saying that he considered us a small, ongoing part of his family.