murakami, haruki - Norwegian wood

"Thanks," I said.
It suddenly dawned on me that I had left the daffodils downstairs. I
had set them aside while unlacing my shoes. I slipped back downstairs
and found the ten bright blossoms lying in the gloom. Midori took a
tall, slim glass from the cupboard and arranged the flowers in it.
"I love daffodils," said Midori. "I once sang "Seven Daffodils' in the
school talent contest. Do you know it?" "Of course."
"We had a folk group. I played guitar."
She sang "Seven Daffodils' as she arranged the food on plates.
Midori's cooking was far better than I had expected: an amazing
assortment of fried, pickled, boiled and roasted dishes using eggs,
mackerel, fresh greens, aubergine, mushrooms, radishes, and sesame
seeds, all cooked in the delicate Kyoto style.
"This is great," I said with my mouth full.
"OK, tell me the truth now," Midori said. "You weren't expecting my
cooking to be very good, were you - judging from the way I look?"
"Not really," I said honestly.
"You're from the Kansai region, so you like this kind of delicate
flavouring, right?"
"Don't tell me you changed style especially for me?"
"Don't be ridiculous! I wouldn't go to that much trouble. No, we
always eat like this."
"So your mother - or your father - is from Kansai?"
"Nope. My father was born in Tokyo and my mother's from
Fukushima. There's not a single Kansai person among my relatives.
We're all from Tokyo or northern Kanto."
"I don't get it," I said. "How can you make this 100 per cent authentic
Kansai-style food? Did somebody teach you?"
"Well, it's kind of a long story," she said, eating a slice of fried egg.
"My mother hated housework of any kind, and she almost never
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