Stacked Wishes

Osechi-ryori and the edible symbolism of Japanese New Year - why we eat black beans for diligence and herring roe for fertility

My grandmother started preparing osechi on December 28th. By the time I was old enough to help, she had been doing it for forty years - the same recipes, the same lacquered boxes, the same order of arrangement. The black beans simmered first. The datemaki came last, still warm when she placed it in the jubako.

I order mine from Takashimaya now. It arrives on the 31st, vacuum-sealed and refrigerated, with reheating instructions I barely follow.

What Osechi Actually Is

Osechi-ryori is the traditional New Year's food of Japan - an elaborate collection of dishes packed into stacked lacquer boxes called jubako. The tradition dates to the Heian period, when offerings were made to the gods during the first three days of the year. The kitchen was meant to rest. The hearth went cold. Everything was prepared in advance.

Each dish carries meaning. This is what makes osechi different from other holiday meals - it's not just food. It's edible symbolism, arranged in layers.

The Layers

A proper osechi comes in three or four tiers, stacked in lacquered boxes called jubako. The stacking itself is symbolic - happiness upon happiness, layered wishes for the year ahead. Eating directly from shared boxes is traditional, though some families plate individual portions now.

The first tier holds the "three delicacies" - kuromame, kazunoko, tazukuri. These are essential. Skip everything else if you must, but not these. Each subsequent tier follows its own tradition: grilled and vinegared items, then simmered vegetables, then pickles. The fourth tier, when present, avoids the number "shi" (four) because it sounds like death - it's called "yo" instead.

The Logic of Symbolism

Every ingredient means something. Some connections are obvious - tai (sea bream) sounds like medetai, auspicious. Others require explanation, or perhaps faith.

The logic is sometimes a stretch. Kinton (sweet potato and chestnut paste) is golden, so it represents wealth. Tazukuri were once used as fertiliser in rice paddies, so they represent an abundant harvest. Prawns curve like the bent backs of the elderly - a wish for longevity. You accept the symbolism or you don't. Either way, you eat.

Making vs. Buying

My grandmother made everything from scratch. Three days of preparation, the kitchen steaming with dashi and sweet vinegar, the house smelling of mirin and soy sauce long after New Year's passed. She saw it as her duty. The jubako was her gift to the family, her labour wrapped in lacquer.

My mother made half and bought half. She was practical about it - the time-consuming items came from the department store basement, the family recipes she could manage in an evening. A compromise between tradition and the reality of a two-income household.

I buy all of it.

The department store versions cost anywhere from ¥10,000 to ¥100,000. Takashimaya, Isetan, Mitsukoshi - they start taking orders in October. The elaborate sets sell out by November. Hotel restaurants and ryotei offer their own versions, sometimes with French or Italian influences. Fusion osechi. My grandmother would not understand.

Convenience stores sell single-portion osechi for ¥3,000. Perfectly serviceable. The symbolism is intact even if the preparation is industrial.

The Taste Problem

I should be honest: not all of it tastes good. Osechi was designed to last several days without refrigeration. Sweet, salty, vinegared - preservation flavours dominate. The black beans are cloyingly sweet. The tazukuri are dry, brittle, taste mainly of sugar and soy. The vinegared lotus root has that particular sourness that signals "this will keep."

Children often don't like osechi. Neither do many adults, if they're being honest. But we eat it anyway. The taste is beside the point. The meaning carries it.

Some modern osechi lean lighter - less sugar, fresher preparations, items meant to be eaten within a day. The symbolism remains, but the palate has shifted. My grandmother would approve of the craftsmanship, if not the concept.

When to Eat It

Osechi is eaten during the first three days of the year - oshogatsu. Traditionally, no cooking happens during this period. The gods are resting. The kitchen is silent. You eat from the boxes, layer by layer, picking what you like, leaving the rest for later.

Day one is for ozoni - mochi rice cakes in soup - served alongside the osechi. The soup varies by region. Kanto-style is clear broth. Kansai uses white miso. Kyushu adds fish. Every family has their version, passed down, defended.

By day three, the boxes are picked over. The prawns are gone. The black beans remain. The datamaki sits lonely in its corner. Someone finishes the last of the kamaboko, and the jubako goes back to storage for another year.

What It Means Now

Fewer families make osechi from scratch. The tradition survives in modified forms - store-bought boxes, restaurant reservations, abbreviated versions with just the essential three. Some young people don't eat it at all. Convenience store bento for New Year's. Pizza. I wonder if the gods notice.

I keep buying mine from Takashimaya. Not because it tastes better than my grandmother's - it doesn't. Not because the preparation matters - it's someone else's labour now, anonymous and efficient. I buy it because opening the boxes still feels like something. The weight of the lacquer. The arrangement I recognise. The black beans waiting in their corner, sweet and symbolic, promising a hardworking year.

My grandmother passed three years ago. The last time I saw her jubako, it sat empty in her kitchen, the lacquer worn at the corners from decades of handling. I don't know where it is now.

I unwrap the vacuum-sealed containers on New Year's Eve, arrange them in the department store jubako, and set the table the way she did. The meaning is inherited. The form persists. Whether that's enough, I'm still deciding.