Wagashi, the Blank Canvas: The Evolution of Japanese Confectionery
Imitation, rather than innovation, is the word choice commonly used to describe craft in Asia. The pervasive stereotype that artisans in Asia are grounded in replicating tradition and lack imagination while the West breaks new ground is the fundamental argument Guth (2019) combats in her essay, “Modeling, models, and knowledge exchange in early modern Japan”. Even when in praise of these long-standing practices, the rhetoric surrounding this discourse in titles such as Copying the Master and Stealing His Secrets (Jordan & Weston, 2003) implies the notion of unoriginality. Admittedly, this perception is not completely unwarranted; karada de oboeru, meaning to “practice until it becomes second nature” has been a pillar of Japanese education, where the master provides the template for the student to perfect. For artisans, utsushi was the practice of creating an exact replica, modeled from a masterpiece. To say that there is no room for creativity in this tradition, however, would be to overlook the nuance of the model itself. In fact, Guth reveals a second type of utsushi, one where the goal of modeling a past master’s work was to gain their techniques while discovering one’s own style. In essence, models served as both a pedagogical tool and a canvas for subversion and innovation. While Guth asserts that models in early modern Japan provided a platform for expression and change passed down from master to student, I would go so far as to argue craft is a dynamic process of not only generational but also multi-cultural adaptations. Craft in Japan is neither static nor timeless, but rather a continuously evolving art influenced by the sociocultural phenomena of its era.
This evolution is no better exemplified than in wagashi, or Japanese confectionery. Wagashi were historically consumed as the last course of kaiseki-ryōri, a traditional multi-course Japanese meal, and before the tea ceremony. Beginning in the 16th century, it was thought that the sweetness of the wagashi helped offset the bitterness of the green tea, and was popular in cities such as Kyoto, Kanazawa, and Matsue where the tea ceremony was dominant. While wagashi are no longer consumed as desserts, they are commonly eaten during rituals and festivities and as snacks, and are still highly associated with tea (Jiao, 2013). Now, there are countless types of wagashi; the more popular varieties include daifuku mochi, dango, manju, yokan, and nerikiri (Figure 1). Although today their names are virtually synonymous with the depictions below, the modern-day ubiquitous nature of these confections conceals the radical transformations the craft of making wagashi has undergone. From mutton soup to aesthetic sweet, I will explore both the history of wagashi-making and the sociocultural forces that have shaped it along the way. The recreation of three wagashi, each representative of a different period in Japan, will not only serve as a visual representation of the evolution of craft, but I will also be able to confirm the feasibility of the changes artisans made to further their trade.
Figure 1. Various wagashi (Tokyo Wagashi Association)
The first rendition of wagashi comes from the Southern Barbarians’ Cookbook (nanban ryōrisho), a collection of Portuguese and Spanish-influenced Japanese recipes dating back to the 17th century or earlier, before the Edo period. Rath (2010) explains that the end of the Warring States Period, marked by the stable military rule of the Tokugawa shogunate, likely allowed for the growth of the publishing industry and the writing of books such as this, as well as the peace necessary for foreign relations. In fact, nanban, or southern barbarian, was a term used by the Japanese to refer to Europeans, as they had first made contact on Japan’s southern islands. They were highly influential in Japanese cuisine, introducing contemporary mainstays of Japanese cuisine such as tempura and castella, and popularizing the use of sugar and eggs.
While unclear exactly why, the book lists two names: Morita Shirō Uemon, likely the author, and Tanaka Sahyōe, the recipient. From this, we can elucidate that since this work was not written by a “southern barbarian”, the knowledge transmitted by the author was likely either tacitly gained through experimentation, or gleaned through observation. Further, Rath points out that the cookbook would have provided useful tips for a burgeoning chef, such as testing the consistency of molten sugar by dropping it into cold water, causing it to solidify instantly. With the cost of refined sugar being twenty-five to thirty-six times the cost of rice, the cookbook may have prevented attempts from wasting any valuable sugar. There are twenty-seven recipes in the Sweets section—eighteen for Iberian confections and the rest for Japanese sweets. Of the wagashi, yōkan will be the focus of my recreation.
Here, it is prudent to note that the term wagashi technically would not have existed at the time. Kashi, which translates to confection in modern Japan, originally referred to dried fruits and nuts eaten as snacks during the Heian period, and the Iberian confections were referred to as nanban-kashi. On the other hand, imported Chinese confections were called kara-gashi, but due to their evolution over time, became distinctly Japanese and were colloquially referred to as wagashi, or Japanese traditional confectionery (Jiao). Hence, the term wagashi implies a dynamic culture of cuisine in and of itself. Nanban influence at the time of this cookbook’s authorship, however, does not mark the birth of wagashi’s history. On the contrary, the recipe included in the Southern Barbarians’ Cookbook already reveals major adaptations in the development of wagashi. The instructions for yōkan are as follows:
“Sweet Adzuki Bean Paste [yōkan]
Mash adzuki beans, add brown sugar, add kudzu starch, and steam. Cut. There are oral instructions” (Rath, p.192).
To understand the progression of yōkan, we must first recognize they would have been classified as kara-gashi, as they were imported from China. In fact, yōkan originates from its nearly unrecognizable Chinese cousin, yáng gēng, or mutton soup. The 1792 book Recipes from the Garden of Contentment (隨園食單) by Yuan Mei provides a recipe for yáng gēng that can be compared to that of yōkan.
取熟羊肉斬小塊，如骰子大。雞湯煨，加筍丁、香蕈丁、山藥丁同煨。
Take the cooked mutton and chop it into small pieces, as big as dice. Simmer in chicken broth, add diced bamboo shoots, diced shiitake mushrooms and diced yam (Translation by Google Translate).
Clearly, the Chinese yáng gēng was meant to be a savory soup of mutton accompanied by various vegetables, which begs the question: how did it become the sweet, jelly-like yōkan? Jiao clarifies that the mutton soup would have already been quite jelly-like, due to the gelatin from the boiled sheep meat; however, the consumption of meat was forbidden during the Buddhism of the Kamakura and Muromachi periods. The Zen priests who brought yōkan back to Japan during this time created a similar texture by instead mixing adzuki beans with wheat or arrowroot flour. The second major difference is the introduction of sugar in the Southern Barbarians’ Cookbook recipe. While sugar did exist in Japan before the Portuguese, it was mainly seen to have medicinal properties, and as Ise Sadatake notes in the Teijō Zakki, arrowroot leaves (amazura) would have been the sweetener of choice. Rath adds that rice glucose (mizu ame) or honey would have also been used to add sweetness. The choice to add brown sugar in this recipe is evidence of Iberian influence in traditional Japanese confectioneries, not just the new dishes introduced by the Portuguese.
The final change from yáng gēng to yōkan is not one noted in the recipe. Rather it is one I will be making—due to the unavailability of kudzu starch—to substitute agar-agar instead. This shift, however, is actually one the Japanese will make themselves a few centuries down the line, as Rath explains that the addition of agar-agar (kanten) dates back to the late eighteenth century. For visual reference, as I will be changing this recipe, I will be using this image of yōkan made with agar-agar (Figure 2) from the Okashi Hinagata (御菓子雛形).
Figure 2. Yokan with agar (Okashi Hinagata)
The first step of the Nanban Cookbook recipe is to mash the adzuki beans, which most likely implies that the beans should be boiled to a consistency where they can be mashed. After washing 250g of adzuki beans, I quickly realized that under high heat, the water would evaporate too fast and the beans would burn, so I let the beans simmer on low heat. After 2 hours, I killed the heat, and all the water had evaporated and the beans were turning into mush. The next step was to mix in brown sugar, and I added an equal weight (250g) of sugar to an empty pot. While the original recipe calls for kudzu starch at this time, I knew that the process for agar-agar would be different—similar to gelatin, it would have to be heated and dissolved, rather than steamed. To the sugar, I added a small amount of water (roughly 100mL) to avoid burning it, along with 8g of agar-agar. Once the sugar and agar-agar were dissolved, I reincorporated the mashed beans and mixed until homogenous. I figured that the mixture would have to cool before solidifying (again, similar to gelatin), so I poured it into a cake tin and let it cool in the refrigerator overnight. The next day, after releasing the yōkan from the tin, I noted it bore a remarkably similar appearance to the yōkan in Figure 2. Tastewise, it was similar to the Korean equivalent yanggeng (양갱), but had a more gelatinous texture, perhaps indicating I put too much agar-agar. Overall, the process was quite time-consuming (around three hours), and considering the yōkan was almost half sugar by weight, it’s clear why an aspiring wagashi-maker would benefit from such a text. Additionally, knowing its Chinese origin prompted me to realize how similar the texture of yōkan was to a bone broth soup that gelatinizes overnight in the refrigerator. Finally, while I did not use kudzu starch, I could understand why the substitution to agar-agar was made: a relatively small amount of agar-agar could achieve the same effect, and would be less likely to dilute the taste of adzuki or sugar.
Figure 3. Process of making yōkan
As Japan entered the Edo period, the continuing stability provided under the Tokugawa shogunate allowed wagashi and confectionery stores to flourish. Sweet mochi were widespread and inexpensive—sold at torii gates of shrines and in entertainment districts. While sugar was still a luxury good, trade with the Netherlands and China made it far more accessible than before, leading to the creation of jogashi, or “superb confectionery”: a specific kind of high-end wagashi made with white sugar. Jogashi shops catered to the imperial court and its nobles, but also often sold confections to influential samurai families as well as members of the upper-class (Keiko, 2023).
In order to advertise their product, these jogashi shops had illustrated catalogs called hinagata that depicted the hundreds of wagashi they offered. One such hinagata was Steamed Sweets (御蒸菓子図), compiled by Asai Yūsei in the late Edo period (Figure 4). According to the inscription, this was a catalog of sweets from the shop Toraya Yamato-no-daijō Fujiwara no Iori, which was located in Osaka and famous for their manjū. In the encyclopedia Morisada Mankō, written by its merchant namesake Morisada in the late Edo period, he says that while there are many “Toraya” shops in Osaka, only confections from this Toraya are worthy of serving to guests (Benrincho).
Figure 4. Wagashi catalog of Toraya Iori (Asai, Late Edo Period)
This Edo period jogashi again reveals landmark changes from the wagashi of a few centuries prior. The most striking difference when compared to the Southern Barbarians’ Cookbook is the introduction of visual elements and the near omission of text. While true that the purpose of the two texts were different, it is also important to note that the cookbook does not give any visual indication as to what the final product should look like, nor does Steamed Sweets give any description as to what the jogashi are made of. Through the commodification of wagashi, its essence has shifted to become more visual—while the Nanban Cookbook is focused on the taste, the hinagata touts its beauty. More than a simple snack, wagashi has since become semiotically intertwined with Japanese culture. Jiao explains that different colors of the same wagashi can express different meanings: funerals called for aojiro-manjū (blue-white manjū) while joyous occasions such as birthdays and weddings demanded kohakumanjū (red and white manjū).
Aside from its visual metamorphosis, different names began to be attributed to each unique jogashi. Instead of descriptive titles, Rath argues that the names given to wagashi were deliberately metaphorical. In reality, the ingredients with which wagashi could be made were severely limited, and the name of the confection was what set it apart, using the imagination of the customer to conjure the image of a delectable treat. For example, wagashi often represented the season, reflected in names such as “aki-no-no (autumn field), harukasumi (spring mist) and koori-mochi (ice cake)” (Jiao, p.31). Motifs from classical literature could also be found in wagashi: tatsuta-mochi referencing the Kokin Wakashu or wakamurasaki alluding to The Tale of Genji (Keiko), and were perhaps even a way for Japanese elites to flaunt their knowledge of the arts.
The subject of my second recreation is a pumpkin, depicted in the second row of the third column on Figure 4, and is, visually, a far departure from the wagashi in the Southern Barbarians’ Cookbook. Its contents, however, are unclear, due to the nature of the catalog. I should note here that while I was unable to find a definitive historical recipe, the limits of my research are bounded by my inability to read or write Japanese, much less translate historical documents. Nevertheless, I was able to piece together fragments of what may have been a historically accurate recipe.
The Japanese Ministry of Agriculture, Forestry, and Fisheries (2023) provides a glimpse into what these wagashi may have looked like by recreating confections from a similar catalog—Omushigashizu. Their description, particularly of Figure 5.2 and 5.5, reads that these wagashi are made of strained bean paste wrapped in nerikiri. The most historically accurate English translated recipe for nerikiri likely comes from Urasenke, a traditional Japanese tea school founded in the 16th century spanning sixteen generations (Urasenke Midorikai Alumni Association). The recipe is for a green plum konashi, a type of nerikiri found in the Kansai region, and is the recipe I will be modeling my recreation of the pumpkin jogashi off of.
Figure 5. Wagashi recreations indicate catalogs often featured confections of red bean paste wrapped in nerikiri (Ministry of Agriculture, Forestry, and Fisheries)
The recipe for making nerikiri begins with making shiro-an, a white bean paste. I started by draining one can of butter beans and rinsing them to remove any salt or additives that might alter the flavor. Then, to achieve the smooth texture of nerikiri, I pressed the beans through a sieve, using water to help the beans pass through the mesh. To remove any excess water, I strained the beans in a cloth. Once I was left with 100g of dry, crumbly beans, I added about half the weight (60g) in white sugar—instead of brown sugar so as to not alter the color—and heated the mixture on a stove with some water to keep it from burning. Once the sugar was fully dissolved into the beans, I took the (now) shiro-an off the heat and placed it in a bowl. To the bowl, I added 3g of rice flour and 10mL of water—this will transform the shiro-an from a bean paste into a dough. Since I didn’t have a steamer, I placed the mixture in a microwave in 30 second intervals until the nerikiri dough could be formed into a ball. I then repeated the process of tearing the dough into pieces to cool and kneading it until it was springy and no longer hot to the touch.
Although I had finished making the dough, I also needed to make the filling—a red bean paste. I figured that the recipe would be the same as shiro-an, except with adzuki beans instead of butter beans, so I repeated the recipe for shiro-an, making that substitution. During the Edo period, colors such as red would have been made with safflower and yellow with gardenia seeds (Keiko), however, for simplicity’s sake, I used food coloring instead. After adding one drop of orange food coloring to 30g nerikiri dough, I sealed 15g red bean paste inside, and used the back of a knife to create indentations.
In the process, I realized that shaping nerikiri was extremely difficult, and was almost an entirely different craft that wagashi-makers would have been expected to master. Due to the heat from my hands, the dough became softer and became indented whenever my fingers would brush against its side. Moreover, if I made a mistake, there was no way to undo the marking, and I would have to restart entirely. The motion to seal the red bean paste inside was also difficult, and I realized I had to ensure the hand that was touching the paste did not touch the nerikiri, otherwise its color would rub onto the dough. After all the indentations were made, I used the back of a chopstick to depress the center of the pumpkin and added a green nerikiri stem on top.
Figure 6. Process of making pumpkin nerikiri
Today, wagashi in Japan takes on a completely different meaning to its roots nearly four centuries prior. In fact, at times, it is not meant to be eaten at all. Jiao notes that modern forms of wagashi known as “craft confectionery” (kogei-gashi) or “decoration confectionery” (kazari-gashi) that are popular in Japan are more akin to art. Onlookers feast with their eyes instead as these master artisans sculpt landscapes of nature for display only. Conversely, wagashi has also become an object of tourism and cultural exchange. Official Japanese tourism websites, such as that of the Hakone Tourist Association, advertise wagashi as a bucket-list itinerary item on a trip to Japan. Highlighting its long history, it is now touted as a traditional Japanese experience and a marker for cultural authenticity, demonstrating how long it has come from its Chinese and Iberian influences.
Just as wagashi originated from a slew of multicultural exchanges, it is undergoing a transformation today as well, evolving to the contemporary globalist climate. One such artisan at the forefront of this development is Tomoko Yagi, owner of Cha-An Teahouse in New York City. A student of the Urasenke tea school, she opened Cha-An in 2004 and weaves together cultural influences through the medium of wagashi. Their afternoon tea set (Figure 7) is a fusion of British afternoon tea and Japanese tea ceremony, blending European pastry with Japanese confections to be served on the side, all the while catering to an American palette. While centuries ago, the Portuguese fundamentally changed wagashi through the introduction of sugar and eggs, this process of harnessing modern sociocultural forces to create a product that caters to the local community is not much different in the case of Cha-An. Rather than tearing down tradition, Yagi is building on it just as the artisans who came before her did—in fact she reinterprets the traditional wagashi technique known as kinton (Figure 8). Instead of large shreds, however, Yagi uses a sieve to create fine threads for a hydrangea nerikiri (Figure 9), which will be my third and final recreation.
Figure 7. Afternoon tea at Cha-An
Figure 8. Hinagata depicting white kinton wagashi (Funabashi-ya Orie)
Figure 9. Yagi’s hydrangea kinton nerikiri (Bon Appétit)
The recipe will be the same as the second recreation of nerikiri, but I will be attempting to follow her process, which she explains in a YouTube video by Bon Appétit. After coloring the dough five ways and separating into 2.5g balls, I pressed each one through a fine-mesh sieve, resulting in extruding threads. I used chopsticks to transfer the kinton onto a 15g ball of nerikiri dough, alternating colors until the surface was covered. The most difficult part of the process was getting the kinton to stick; Yagi uses a technique to carve out an indent for the threads, but it was hard to tell exactly what she was doing and my attempts were not as successful. Additionally, the chopsticks she used were extremely thin, like needles, compared to the regular chopsticks I used which caused the kinton to stick together and lose their shape. While Yagi likely knows exactly how much food coloring will result in these specific colors from making thousands of wagashi, my colors ended up being overly saturated as a result of putting too much dye and created another point of difficulty. Compared to the Edo period, the aesthetics of wagashi have become even more important, and new techniques continue to shape the craft beyond the realm of Japan.
Figure 10. Recreation of hydrangea nerikiri
Just like utsushi, traditional recipes of wagashi are canvases for creativity. They are not set in stone any more than how culture continues to transform and keep up with the era. Wagashi is not a static tradition, rather, it is a living, breathing machine of interchangeable ingredients and techniques, which can be swapped out depending on the situation—whether it is kudzu for agar-agar or green tea for Earl Grey. In fact, its evolution birthed an entirely new aspect of wagashi making—the sculpting, shaping, and carving, which is arguably as difficult, if not more, than its stovetop counterpart. The recipes are merely a springboard for one’s imagination, and successful adaptations will one day also become tradition. Suffice to say, the craft of wagashi is unbelievably dynamic and is as far from student-copying-master as one can possibly get.
References
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