I sat on the edge of the veranda, lost in Kiyo's letter as its loose end fluttered in the wind. Mrs Hagino slid the partition open and brought out my dinner. She asked if I was still reading and remarked that it must be quite lengthy. I made some absent-minded response about reading together with the wind, and then began eating. It was boiled sweet potatoes, again. The Hagino couple were more courteous, considerate, and refined than my former Ikagin landlords, but regrettably their food was inferior. Yesterday was potatoes, the day before yesterday was potatoes, and today was potatoes again. I may have told them that I love potatoes, but I can't subsist on potatoes day after day. I shouldn't joke about Uranari being pale from eating squash. In the not too distant future I was going to find myself transformed into the Potato Man. If Kiyo were here she'd feed me my favorites like bluefin sashimi or broiled fishcake, but I was stuck with the stinginess of a samurai family that had come down in the world. I realized I needed Kiyo. If my tenure at that school looked to be a long one, then I would summon her from Tōkyō. The life of an educator was tough. I'd been told not to eat tempura soba or dumplings, but rather to stay in my lodgings and turn yellow from a potato-centric diet. Zen monks ate more extravagantly than I did. After polishing off the dish of potatoes, I took two raw eggs from my desk drawer and cracked them over the edge of my bowl, enough to get me by. Without the added nutrition from these raw eggs, how could I hold up through twenty one hours of teaching each week?