Kigoroshi
Three months of maturation, a hundred hours of outstanding artisanal work, and one final sanding, the wooden work of art, adorned with the stars of its constellation, reaches its point of completion. While its surface is already an invitation to the culinary arts, the piece cannot yet be considered a true Arakuto altar. To become one, its wooden body must be invested with its sacred dimension. It is at this stage that Thierry Forbois will perform Kigoroshi, the ritual of the strike, a short ceremony intended to consecrate the piece.
After the creator of Arakuto withdrew into himself to commune and pay tribute to the tree sacrificed for its wood, he will strike a sledgehammer on a steel punch placed on the maple edge of the future altar. This solemn gesture, which forgives no hesitation, will leave an indelible scar, the mark of a square, image of a piece of wood: the Arakuto emblem. Through this rite of passage, the piece enters the realm of the sacred: from now on, it is an Arakuto altar.
Thus, once each day for three days, the culinary altar shall be anointed with pure linseed oil. Then, on the fourth day, a balm shall be applied unto it — a precious blend of jojoba, coconut, and argan oils, beeswax, and carnauba wax, to which have been added the essential oils of lemon, frankincense, and benzoin.
The Arakuto emblem marking each culinary altar is the result of the impact of a steel punch. A method inspired by a Japanese technique for compressing wood fibers known as Kigoroshi. Used in traditional wood arts and joinery, the term kigoroshi means 'to kill wood.'
The Arakuto emblem marking each culinary altar is the result of the impact of a steel punch. A method inspired by a Japanese technique for compressing wood fibers known as Kigoroshi. Used in traditional wood arts and joinery, the term kigoroshi means 'to kill wood.'
A Sacrifice to Honor
Long before the very concept of culinary altar emerged — this idea that a surface for preparing the plants and animals we consume could become a chosen space for reconnection with oneself and the real, a place where life and sacredness meet daily — long before a first form of altar was shaped from clay by the hands of its creator, before other hands, masters in the art of transfiguring wood, sculpted its body; before a first constellation was inlaid upon it; before the very first ritual of the strike consecrated the wooden work to make it an Arakuto altar: there was… a tree. The life of a tree.
A life that began a hundred years ago, at the heart of a North American forest, when a majestic maple, swayed by a late spring breeze, released one of its samaras. The winged seed swirled for a moment before settling on a small patch of warm earth, where it nestled in. The seed became a sprout. Then a seedling. Before its slender stem was cloaked in a thin skin of bark. From one spring to the next, the little tree gained girth and height. And for decades, far from the stirrings of the human world, unaware of wars and revolutions, it continued its slow ascent toward the sun, stretching its roots into the unseen depths of the earth. It endured the bites of winter, the snows and freezing rains, braved the summer fumes from fires that ravaged stretches of nearby forests, spared by the luck of the winds, or by fate. After a century, the maple had become a pillar of its kind, a living guardian offering shade, shelter, and sustenance to countless lives.
Until the day when forest workers, reaching the foot of this centuries-old maple, deemed it ready to be harvested. They methodically sawed it down, putting an end to its life as a tree. Its wood, considered to be of the highest quality, would be destined for fine woodworking. It would become furniture, toys, musical instruments, objects of art or utility...
Caught in the rush of our modern lives, it rarely crosses our minds that our existence comes at the cost of other beings — animals, plants, trees… We know this, though it is easy to ignore: to live, we must take life. To live, we must kill.
Accepting this truth, and recognizing that shortening the life of another being to extend our own is no trivial act, allows us to see the necessity of death through the lens of sacrifice. For it is not death that defines sacrifice, but the value we place on the life that is taken. Only what we hold dear can truly be called a sacrifice. And what we hold dear is, by its very nature, sacred.
Thus, every time we realize that our life depends on the lives of beings whose existence we shorten, and every time we honor their sacrifice — with a sincere thought, a sense of respect, or a gesture of gratitude — we renew our ancient bond with the living world, reconcile our soul with the soul of the world, and become worthy of the 'species apart' status we claim to hold in the hierarchy of life. In doing so, we restore, in our daily lives, the sense we had lost — the sense that defines our humanity: the sense of the sacred. Therein lies the raison d'être and the true spirit of an Arakuto altar.
Thierry Forbois
