A Tavola!

Akiko Kurematsu

In celebration of Mother’s Day, a conversation with Auckland-based journalist and writer Akiko Kurematsu. Akiko’s first book, Mother Tongue, traces a lineage of recipes passed down through generations. Written while pregnant with her son, Mako, and shaped by a life lived across continents, it reflects on how food and memory are carried from place to place — adapted to new ingredients, environments, and ways of living. A second edition will be available for preorder this Mother’s Day.

Interview by LAYLA CLUER
Photography by WEDNESDAYS

LC: To begin, I’d love to start with your writing practice more broadly. You’ve worked as a writer and journalist across many fields — how did food become part of your practice?
AK: I am curious about the human experience. I write about art, design, film, music, travel, food — experiences that trigger memory and nostalgia, stir wild feelings like love and hate, inspire us to reflect and reconcile, push us to create and destroy, and comfort us in times of need. Food does all of that in delicious ways.

Like generations of women before me, I was revising and updating family recipes through my lens.

LC: That curiosity feels like a natural entry point into your first book, a cookbook. You’ve described food as your “first language,” and the book itself as a conversation across generations — how did it come about?
AK: Mother Tongue is inspired by my mother Kozue’s book “My Mother’s Love,” of my grandmother Fusae’s recipes. I began cooking through her book during the COVID-19 pandemic, when I missed the flavours of my childhood — warm agedashi tofu (fried tofu in dashi broth), tonkatsu (fried pork cutlets), and kinpira gobo (braised burdock root).

I began writing Mother Tongue when I realised I was simplifying and substituting ingredients so that these classic Japanese recipes worked for me. Like generations of women before me, I was revising and updating family recipes through my lens.

LC: You grew up all over the globe. I imagine that created quite a fluid sense of home and identity. What role did your mother’s cooking play during those formative years?
AK: I grew up between Japan, the U.S., Canada, and the Philippines, spending a few years in each place as we followed my father and his work around the world. Boxes of Japanese kitchen appliances, tools, and dishware followed us from place to place: a family-sized rice cooker to make pearly white Japanese rice. An electric hot plate to make okonomiyaki (savoury pancakes) and yakisoba (stir-fried noodles). Three heavy pots — a ceramic donabe for hot pot, a doughnut-shaped stainless-steel pot for shabushabu (hot pot with thinly sliced beef and vegetables), and a cast-iron pot for sukiyaki (hot pot with raw egg as a dipping sauce). Bamboo mats to roll sushi. Bowls in varying sizes, shapes, and materials to hold rice, soup, side dishes, and noodles. Sets of wooden chopsticks and porcelain tea cups. Then there were the items for special occasions, like the jūbako (carved lacquer boxes) to hold auspicious osechi ryori (auspicious food) for New Year’s. My mother would seek out Japanese grocers and Asian supermarkets in every city and town we lived in, and cook Japanese food on most days. It was the stability and consistency of family and food that held us together.

LC: I was suprised to learn that your maternal grandmother was from Saga prefecture — not far from where we make our porcelain. Do you have any specific food memories from your visits there as a child?
AK: We travelled back to Japan every year, during the summer holidays. When we visited my mother’s side of the family in Saga, my grandmother prepared crab to celebrate. The meal consisted of one whole crab per person, and sake for the adults — at least that’s what I remember of it. The large red crabs were freshly salt-boiled and steaming hot. We ate with our hands, dipping the meat in ponzu and prying open the shell to reveal the kani miso (innards), my favourite part. I remember the adults pouring a bit of warm, fragrant sake to mix with the bright orange kani miso, tipping the shell back into their mouths to end the feast.

When I first saw the Softedge products online, I felt an immediate connection. There was something deeply nostalgic about the look. The bulky curves. Familiar colours reminiscent of days gone by. Perfection of the finish. It wasn’t a surprise then, to find out that they were crafted in Kyushu, made from the same clay where my maternal lineage lies. In my introduction to Mother Tongue, I write that the book is consciously nostalgic — a search for a taste and a feeling that is slipping into the past. Maybe that’s how I would describe softedge, too.

LC: It’s interesting you felt that connection to Softedge — I often feel Hasami found me in a way. It wasn’t where I had initially planned to manufacture, but when I ended up there by chance, it quickly felt like the right fit — our designs seemed to sit naturally within the town’s colourful ceramic language. Perhaps your grandmother had some Hakusan or Hasami-yaki on her shelves.

In a more personal way, Mother Tongue traces something similar through lineage and inheritance. You were pregnant while writing the book, working through your mother’s versions of her own mother’s recipes. Do you think that transition shaped the way you approached the project?

The title Mother Tongue is really about my mother’s food. How it tastes, and how it makes me feel.

AK: Mother Tongue, in a way, is an exploration of my relationship with my mother, which hasn’t always been easy! Looking back now, I sense an undercurrent of missing and longing, reinforced by the memories, stories, and references to family and lineage throughout. The cover is printed in the same komon, a classic Japanese sharkskin pattern that nods to my son Mako, who arrived while the book was being published. The foreword was written by my mother, Kozue. The photography features fashion, jewellery, and ceramics that my mother passed on to me… just like the recipes.

LC: It's a very layered project; there seems to be a lot of hidden and subtle meaning between its pages. I’m curious how your relationship with the book has evolved since its release, and whether there have been any unexpected outcomes?
AK: Mother Tongue was launched on my first Mother’s Day, which coincided with my birthday in 2021. To be honest, I wrote the book for myself, first and foremost. But the first edition ended up selling out across 25 countries, sold at independent bookstores that I greatly admire, and curated amongst beautiful objects at boutiques and shops. I’ve spent the last five years expanding on the stories and recipes through media and brand partnerships. Seeing the Mother Tongue community grow – comprised of old and new friends who supported this self-publishing project in some way has been an unexpected and rewarding.

I have read every email and DM, and pored over the photos of the recipes that have been sent to me. The incredible response led to the publish the second edition of Mother Tongue, which is out on Mother’s Day.

LC:What does cooking for Mako look like at the moment — are there dishes or rituals you particularly like to share?
AK: Mako asks, “Can I help you?” and hops on his kitchen stool when he is hungry and wants his meal. We have our favourites. Tamago gohan (runny or jammy egg on rice, with soy sauce) for breakfast. Onigiri or sushi for lunch. Tenpura with soba or udon for dinner. I prep the ingredients and give him specific tasks - cutting, seasoning, boiling, frying, and plating. It’s taken years and many messy meals, but he can now stay focused and complete simple tasks.

I tend to fold him into the daily cooking routine instead of creating occasions to cook or bake together, and I think he just likes seeing all the parts come together to make something yummy.