When I first meet a new elementary school class, I always do a short talk on Canada. "Canada is a big country," I'll say and spread my arms wide. "Canada is a cold country," I'll elaborate, pretend to shiver in the night. "There aren't many people in Canada, either. Tokyo's population is the same." I tell them that last year the coldest day was -52.3 degrees Celsius, that ice hockey is the most popular sport and that I've seen the northern lights every year of my life. I'll say that there are cows everywhere and that buffalo burgers are delicious, but not as tasty as moose sausage.

I've had entire question periods devoted to moose. How big is a one year old moose? How about a three year old moose? Oh, oh, oh! How about a seven year old moose? How big are moose horns? Where do moose live? Did you ever see a moose? What does a moose smell like? Where do moose sleep? What do moose eat? Do bears eat moose? Did you ever see a bear and a moose at the same time? Are moose scary? Do moose have mommies? How do you make moose sausage?

I never give the entire recipe -- only that it works well to mix the moose meat with some pork. Then they ask what Japanese food I like. I tell them I love sushi, except for eel because it's too slimy and squid because it's too squishy. I don't know the Japanese for slimy or squishy, so I resort to wild mouth gestures. They must think I'm a real weirdo.

Japanese food isn't all sushi, though. Like Thanksgiving turkey and beef stew, the best foods are seasonal. Now it's nabe time.

Last month Nancy and I were invited to our first-ever nabe party. We drove into the mountains west of Sakawa to a beautiful country house perched at the edge of a night-black rice paddy. Various small flour heaters were set to high, but the air was still freezing inside. A basketball-sized crab, flown in that morning from Hokkaido, was chilling on some ice. After serving us green tea, our host stepped outside to prepare the crab. We took our seats and waited for the other guests to arrive.

Between sips of beer, we added chopped crab, fish, shrimp and chicken to a large clay pot, the nabe, filled with a seaweed broth simmering on a portable stove located in the middle of the table. In went the vegetables: Chinese cabbage, green onions and shiitake. We ate five-ingredient sushi rice and waited for the nabe, which bubbled contentedly as the center of attention.

For the next three hours, we ate Hokkaido crab from the nabe, taking what we wanted with a our own dirty chopsticks, spooning broth with a blackened ladle. Similar to a fondue party, we ate slowly to savour the warm conversation and the fresh crab. Laughing the night away, I ate more crab than at any other point in my life.

When no one could eat anymore, our host dropped a big pile of fresh udon into the leftover broth. She added the last of the crab, too. I waited a moment to digest before slurping into some udon. By this time I was sweating: the room was hot from the bubbling soup but I'd also eaten too much. The slightest movement left me over-exerted and short of breath.

Since that first party I've had two more nabes this winter. Being part of a group of people gathered for the express purpose of eating until they can't move anymore has been fantastic. Each nabe also gives me something to talk about with my elementary students. Is a Korean kimchee nabe as delicious as a Hokkaido crab nabe? they want to know. Is there nabe in Canada? Which is more delicious, nabeyaki ramen or nabeyaki udon? How about sukiyaki? Did you ever eat a squid nabe? How about moose?

Actually, that's a good question. How about moose?