秋の気配 aki no kehai The first whisper of autumn

秋の気配 aki no kehai

The first whisper of autumn.

You may of heard of the Shojin ryouri, Zen Buddhist temple cuisine and goma dofu. A classic side dish a little like pan a-cotta that looks like tofu, made with ground sesame and kuzu flour, served at the beginning or end of a meal.

There is a Japanese dish called とうもろこし豆腐 (tōmorokoshi-dōfu), literally “corn tofu.” This is a similar dish but it isn’t a common everyday food in Japan like soy tofu.

It appears more often as a seasonal, refined appetizer, particularly in Japanese style cuisine and temple/vegetarian cooking.

Fresh sweet corn is puréed and combined with things such as kombu dashi and kuzu (kudzu) starch, then heated until it thickens. It’s poured into a mould and chilled until it becomes silky and tofu-like.

So despite the name, there doesn’t have to be any soybean in it at all.

I was inspired by Ninna-ji temple in Kyoto who serve a yellow, slightly sweet, corn flavoured tofu like dish as part of a temple meal.

Following Kisetsukan 季節感 The Sense of the Seasons in my last post where I made sweet corn ice cream i decided I would turn this late summer early autumn ingredient into this simple delicate dish.

But first I want to share some more Japanese words that gives us that sense of the season moving into September.

秋の気配  Aki no Kehai

The first signs of autumn

There is a moment in Japan when summer has not quite left, yet and autumn begins to reveal itself. It may be felt rather than seen, a cooler air in the early morning, the fading warmth of the evening sun, or the first hint of gold amongst the green leaves. This quiet arrival is beautifully expressed by the Japanese phrase 秋の気配 (aki no kehai) the first signs, or feeling, of autumn.

It is not autumn in its fullness, but a gentle hint of what is to come.

The natural world begins its gentle transition. The light becomes softer, shadows grow longer, and the sounds of summer slowly change. In the countryside, grasses begin to sway beneath cooler breezes, while the first leaves quietly surrender their summer green. Even the sky can seem different, higher and clearer, scattered with delicate fish scale clouds うろこ雲 (uroko-gumo), one of the quiet signs that autumn is beginning to arrive.

Japanese cuisine has long celebrated the changing seasons, and early autumn brings with it the first tastes of the harvest: figs, pears, chestnuts, sweet potatoes, mushrooms and sweetcorn. These foods carry the colours and textures of the season earthy, golden, warm and quietly abundant.

A simple bowl of roasted sweet potato, a handful of chestnuts, or the sweetness of a perfectly ripe fig can become a small celebration of autumn’s arrival.

I don’t know about you but as soon as September arrives I start to pack away my summer clothes. The lightness of summer slowly gives way to softer layers and richer textures. A fine cardigan is slipped over the shoulders in the morning, a lightweight jacket becomes welcome in the evenings. Colours begin to deepen ochre, russet, warm brown, muted green and the dusky reds of turning leaveswhile natural fabrics and gentle layers echo the changing landscape.

Nothing needs to happen all at once.

That is the beauty of aki no kehai noticing the small things.

初秋 Shoshū

The very beginning of autumn

Another beautiful expression is 初秋 (shoshū), meaning early autumn quite literally, the very beginning of the season.

Shoshū belongs to that delicate space between summer and autumn, when both seasons seem to exist together.

The days may still hold summer’s warmth, yet mornings feel crisp. The cicadas begin to quieten in Japan replaced by the delicate sounds of autumn insects. The first harvests appear, and the landscape slowly begins to turn towards the deeper colours of the months ahead.

It is a season of gentle preparation rather than transformation.

We begin to reach for warmer clothing, but still leave the windows open to the lingering summer air. We welcome the first autumn ingredients while enjoying the last gifts of summer. In the garden and countryside, we look more closely for the signs of change, a leaf beginning to turn, berries deepening in colour, grasses taking on a golden hue.

Perhaps this is why early autumn feels so poignant.

It reminds us that seasons rarely arrive suddenly. They overlap, soften and dissolve into one another, giving us time to notice. This must be why Japanese people pay attention to the 72 micro seasons I’ve often spoke about on this blog.

In Japan, this attentiveness to the seasons is deeply woven into everyday life into food, clothing, nature, poetry and the simple rituals of daily living.

秋の気配 aki no kehai is the feeling that autumn is near.

初秋 shoshū is the moment when it begins.

Perhaps this is where wabi-sabi and mono no aware meet in the quiet beauty of impermanence. There is something deeply moving in noticing the first signs of change, a fading summer flower, a cooler breeze, the turning of a single leaf, or the warmth of the season’s first harvest. Mono no aware is that gentle awareness that nothing remains unchanged, and perhaps it is this fleeting quality that makes each moment so precious.

Autumn does not simply arrive; it quietly reminds us to notice what is here, before it passes.

Recipe for tōmorokoshi-dōfu

(とうもろこし豆腐)Sweetcorn Tofu

You will need 120g of cooked sweetcorn kernels

Put the sweetcorn into a blender with  2 cups of dashi, 1/2 a teaspoon of salt and 1/2 a teaspoon of sugar and blend well until as smooth as possible.

Then tip out the liquid through a strainer retaining both.

Add your sweetcorn  pulp back to the blender and blend again as fine as possible, finishing off by adding back the liquid again to combine

Add to a pan 40g of kuzu root (if it comes in chunks grind it into a fine powder first. Then add a little of your liquid to make a paste then add the rest of the liquid to the pan.

Give it all a good mix and turn on the heat. Heat the sweetcorn and kuzu liquid stirring continuously until it thickens to the consistency of thick custard.

You will then need a container to pour your sweetcorn dofu into and another dish for it to sit in filled with ice water. I like to use my Nagashikan, a stainless steel container made in Niigata with a removable inner tray. It’s one of my favourite kitchen gadgets that I often use to make jellies and yokan with.

You can purchase these from Global Kitchen a great place for all Japanese kitchen utensils and more. If you don’t have one you can use any container.

Pour out your sweetcorn  dofu into your container and chill in an ice bath.

When cool it should already be set. Cover with some plastic wrap and chill further in the fridge for a few hours. When ready take your set sweetcorn dofu, tip it out so the smooth side faces up (this gives nicer presentation) and cut it into squares.

Always served chilled

Finish with a tenmori (天盛り)

(I have written a whole blog about this but basically it is a deceptively simple yet deeply meaningful finishing technique that brings harmony, beauty, and spirit to the plate.

The word tenmori comes from the kanji 天 (ten, meaning “sky” or “top”) and 盛り (mori, meaning “to heap” or “to place”). In the culinary world, it refers to the final garnish placed on top of a dish, not just to beautify, but to subtly enhance the dish’s character, seasonality, and emotional impact.

I thought I’d try two tenmori one more sweet suitable for the end of a meal like a small dessert and one more savoury to start a meal.

In keeping with the seasons I chose to make an elderberry & Blackberry compote and decorate with freshly picked berries, the latter I made a roasted cherry tomato puree finishing with a roasted tomato and a few chilli flakes, basil and olive oil.

Why not experiment with different toppings to see which you like best. A small dot of fresh wasabi paste on top provides a sharp contrast to the corn’s sweetness, or try chilled citrus ponzu or a few drops of light soy sauce

The finished texture is somewhere between silken tofu, panna cotta and a very delicate savoury custard. It has a gentle natural sweetness from the corn, which makes it wonderfully versatile, depending on how you choose to finish it.

For me, this simple dish captures something of 秋の気配 (aki no kehai) that quiet feeling of autumn just beginning to arrive. The corn still belongs to the warmth and abundance of late summer, while the delicate presentation and seasonal garnishes begin to hint at what is to come.

Perhaps that is what I love most about Japanese cuisine, the invitation to pause and notice. A single ingredient, a change in colour, a cooler morning, or the first taste of an autumn harvest can tell us that the season is turning.

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