Making Sushi With Grandma Helen: A Memory From My Childhood Kitchen

The kitchen lesson I carried into the next generation

I must have been about eight or nine years old when Grandma Helen flew over from Oahu to visit us. My mother had just had my little brother, David, and we were living in Honomu on the Big Island of Hawaiʻi.

I remember being almost as tall as my grandmother already.

Grandma Helen was a little woman, but she was strong. She had strong Asian heritage, strong family values, and very definite ideas about how things were supposed to be done—especially in the kitchen.

One day, I asked her if we could make sushi.

She said sure, but before we did anything, my hair had to be pulled back into a tight bun and my hands had to be washed.

And even though our kitchen was already clean, that wasn't enough for Grandma.

The table and counters had to be wiped down before we prepared any food.

Only then were we ready to begin.

Grandma's Way of Measuring Rice

Grandma had me wash the white rice in a pot. When I finished, she taught me how to measure the water.

We didn't use a measuring cup.

She showed me how to use my index finger.

First, I measured the depth of the rice with my index finger and marked that distance with my thumb. Then I placed the tip of my index finger at the top of the rice. The water needed to reach the same spot I had marked with my thumb.

That was Grandma's way.

It was also how many local families in Hawaiʻi measured their rice before cooking it on the stove.

I didn't realize it then, but Grandma was teaching me something I would eventually teach my own children—and later my grandchildren.

To this day, that is how our family measures rice.

Preparing the Sushi

While the rice cooked on the stove, we started preparing everything else.

We brought out carrots, gobo—burdock root—tuna, eggs and nori, the dried seaweed sheets we would use to roll the sushi.

I peeled the carrots while Grandma sliced the carrots and gobo into long, thin strips.

She lightly cooked the tuna in a frying pan. I scrambled the eggs, Grandma cooked them, and then she sliced those into strips too.

For the seasoned rice, I remember Grandma using:

1¼ cups sugar
1 cup rice vinegar
2 tablespoons + 1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon Ajinomoto (MSG)

I don't use the Ajinomoto anymore, but it was part of the way Grandma made it then.

When the rice was finished cooking, she poured the steaming rice into a large metal bowl and added the sugar, rice vinegar, salt and Ajinomoto mixture.

Then everything was mixed together.

I can still remember Grandma calling me “baby.”

She warned me to be careful.

The rice was hot.

Grandma was accustomed to working with it and could mix it with her hands, but she made sure I understood that hot, sticky rice could burn me badly.

So we mixed it and waited for it to cool.

Then came the part I had been waiting for.

Time to Roll the Sushi

Grandma showed me how to lay a sheet of nori onto a bamboo mat.

We patted a layer of rice over most of the nori, leaving some space at the edge. Then we placed our carrots, gobo, egg and tuna in a row about an inch from the edge.

And then—we rolled.

The tuna wasn't a rule, either. Fish cake or other fillings could be used depending on what you had or what your family liked.

When we finished, Grandma sliced the rolls into pieces.

And we ate our sushi together.

I remember asking her:

“Grandma, next time can we make the sweet cone sushi?”

That was my favorite.

She said, “Sure. Next time.”

What Grandma Really Taught Me

At eight or nine years old, I thought Grandma Helen was teaching me how to make sushi.

Looking back now, I understand she was teaching me much more.

Wash your hands.

Take care of your kitchen.

Prepare your food with care.

Respect what you are making.

And pass along what someone took the time to teach you.

I went on to teach my three children how to measure rice the same way Grandma taught me. And eventually, I taught my grandchildren too.

No measuring cup.

Just an index finger and a thumb—and a little lesson that traveled from Grandma Helen's hands to mine, from mine to my children's, and then to another generation.

That's what a family recipe can do.

It can carry a person forward.

Preserve the handwriting. Preserve the memory. Preserve the story.

— Eyvette Benoit
The Heirloom Journal