Work Text:
Sun Path Ozoni
"Nah man, you gotta use the soy broth."
"Salt."
"Miso."
Ikkaku, Bepo, Shachi and Penguin shelved ingredients in the galley, including items for New Year ozoni—soup with mochi. A summer celebration this time, although every season was as hot as hell in the sub.
After straightening a tub of pasta, Ikkaku plucked a scrap of paper from Bepo's paw—Bepo's recipe—and wandered to the main counter. Brow furrowed, she pointed at the recipe's illustrations. "Why's the mochi square?"
Bepo, following her, rolled his eyes. His coverall was superior orange for a reason. He hooked a torn-out magazine scrap from Ikkaku's top pocket.
"What's this abomination?" He tapped a claw on circular mochi bobbing in a milky broth. Pencilled notes graffitied the photograph.
"Signifies harmony." Ikkaku grabbed her recipe from Bepo and shook it out. "Boring old squares? What're they for?"
"Dunno, tastes good." Bepo snatched his paper too and flattened it on the counter. "Rooms are square."
"Domes are circular."
"Quit grousing," Penguin called out from the pantry. "Square, round? It all tastes the same." A bag of mochi flour from the top shelf teetered between him and Shachi.
Ikkaku stared him down then turned to Bepo. "Mochi's gotta be toasted on the grill too. Makes the soup taste just right. What's your take on that, bear?"
Bepo sucked air between his teeth. Shachi and Penguin, hands dusted, rested against the counter, the flour behind them now, ready to watch the show.
"Waste of time. But all hot and gooey in the broth?" Bepo's incisors dripped. "Perfection."
Ikkaku walked to the basin, turned the tap, and soaped up. Shachi lifted her instructions from the counter.
"White miso? Ordinary stuff not good enough for you?"
"Seaweed and fish flakes?" Ikkaku made sure the sink plug was secure. Water was valuable. "How's that meant to sustain you?"
Uni walked in with Clione. "Red bean paste mochi?! Man, where're you from?"
Clione ignored Uni and—seeking tips—sighted Bepo's scrawl and removed it from the kitchen bench. His handwriting was worse than Law's. "Roe and oysters? La-de-dah." Clione pushed his nose up with two fingers. Posh folk.
"Marine life gives life," Bepo growled. Shachi leant across and rubbed his belly. See if Bepo'd let Clione know where the adzuki were.
"Gathering mountain vegetables is hard work," Uni offered. "But who doesn't love 'em and mushrooms? Fern fronds and shimeji are best for soup." But rather than scouting out any dried produce they might have, he sat and sipped coffee.
"Me?" one of the new guys piped up. "New year's a purifying time. Common seasonal ingredients all the way."
"Walnuts are good." Jean Bart spoke quietly. He'd slipped into the kitchen unnoticed—surprising them every time.
"Get outta here!" Only Celestial Dragons could be so extravagant.
The click of Law's boots along the corridor punctuated the din. Thick miso-broth covering mochi, all topped with bonito flakes, warmed Flevance winters. Feasting at midnight and into the new year brought good luck and longevity. Huh.
"Correct me if I'm wrong." He sat at the table, Kikoku nearby. The kitchen quieted. Ikkaku and Bepo seized their recipes.
"We're twenty-one people, no?"
"Is a Mink a person, Cap?"
"You mean, is a person a hairless Mink?" Bepo retorted.
The crew had just ceased the Great Debate on cultural biases and Law didn't need another on biological determinism. He spoke quickly.
"The question is, over how many days is ozoni eaten?"
"Three," everyone agreed. Everyone.
"Different recipes, broths, shapes and styles for three days. More if you like. We've got mochi flour?"
Jean Bart nodded.
"Enough water to celebrate and see us through to the next island? Rice?"
Uni counted on his fingers. "Yup."
Law eyed the kitchenware. Steamers, saucepans, kettles, pots and pans.
"Roster. You know the drill. Get to it."
Ikkaku turned her recipe over to a creased photo of people pounding and turning mochi. How they missed that, and they were twenty (plus one) strong. Perfect for a community event. Bepo peered over her shoulder.
"Captain?"
"Bepo."
Bepo snagged Ikkaku's recipe again, studied the picture. "Let's do mochitsuki. We'll have the freshest mochi."
Shachi and Penguin raced over, bracing their arms on the table. "Fill an empty sake barrel with rocks and use it as a mortar. Reinforce the top."
"It's a winter tradition," the new guy protested, then shrank a few sizes under the stares of his crewmates.
"Or we could use the usu, the wooden mortar we used last year," Law turned back to Shachi, "When we stopped at that summer island."
"Not last time." Penguin pulled out the chair opposite his friend.
"The hangovers!" Shachi put his hands to his head. "Couldn't lift an eyelid, let alone a mallet."
"You too, Cap," Ikkaku added. "Maybe it was the time before that."
Law rocked back on the tips of his chair, thinking. It might've been, and he might've got a little tipsy last year, otherwise the tradition wouldn't have been skipped.
"There's room?" he asked.
"If Jean Bart doesn't swing too high."
Penguin faced Law. "You gotta turn the dough."
Law weighed his crew's goodwill against fingers crushed under a Jean Bart strike.
"It's the leader's job."
Law nodded. He had survived Cora.
The crew scrambled to get steamers, kettles and mixtures ready. Measuring how much they needed wasn't that hard. Once done, they soaked the rice for the morning.
Bepo prepared soba noodles and broth to farewell the departing year's hardships, and to welcome in good fortune once the clock struck midnight. He chilled some for those who preferred cool food in warm climates and hot submarines. May their next battles be not so hard fought.
It was no surprise that Law—stripped to his undershirt—excelled at avoiding pulverisation. On each upswing of the mallet—held between Ikkaku and Clione, Shachi and Penguin, or individually by Jean Bart or Bepo—he turned the dough. Pinpricks of sweat danced along his tatts, the ink as much a target as a warning.
The Polar Tang—moored near some atoll—bobbed with the waves. A black happi coat bordered with white hearts lay jumbled on the flooring with a pile of others. It was far too warm for some traditions. Seagulls screeched above.
Puffs of sweet flour lifted when pounded mochi landed on a table that had been dragged on deck. Lining the side pushed against the wall, margaritas, piña coladas, pitchers of sangria and bottles of beer sloshed and rattled each time the mallet descended. Handmade curly straws spun, and matching handmade Bepo, Chopper or Hearts Jolly Roger clips twirled with them.
Gloom was absent from the new year sky. Uni pinched off bits of mochi for the others to toss between their hands into round, rectangular, or Bepo-shaped cakes (Captain's favourite) for later.
Sipping drinks, the Hearts waited to swing the mallet, or queued at the stoves, cooking their version of ozoni; toasting mochi if they liked it, leaving it soft and ready to dunk into soup if not. Ikkaku's mechanics ventilated the kitchen and the deck was breezy.
The crew sampled one soup, and returned for another. They didn't always rinse their bowls—water was a commodity—but emptied shells or inedible seasonings before filling up again. There was plenty of mochi. Eating hardened leftovers encouraged strong bones and teeth, and unity through thick and thin.
The Hearts knew that the ingredients often grew when other vegetation was scarce. Defence of regional cuisines was expected, but they ate all varieties in all weathers. Survivors, all—to not do so was wasteful, careless. Ill-luck would not find a place at their table.
