Nerikiri & Matcha Class in Kyoto: A 2025 Review

Kyoto, you know, has this way of pulling you into its past. One moment you are on a busy street, and the next, you literally find yourself on a stone-paved lane that seems untouched by time. As I was saying, I was looking for an activity that felt a bit more personal than just seeing the sights. I wanted to, sort of, get my hands on a piece of Japanese culture, not just look at it from behind a rope. So, I found information online about a class where you could apparently make your own *nerikiri*, which are these super pretty Japanese sweets, and then learn how to whisk your own bowl of matcha green tea. Frankly, it sounded like a perfectly quiet way to spend a rainy Kyoto afternoon. The pictures looked amazing, but you know, you never really know what you are in for. This is basically my full rundown of the experience, from the moment I stepped through the door to the final, sweet bite.

The whole idea, you know, seemed almost too perfect for a city like Kyoto. Honestly, a place famous for its refined artistry and deep traditions felt like the right spot for this kind of thing. I booked it a few weeks ahead, which is a good idea as it turns out, because these sessions are often small and can fill up quickly. I was a little bit nervous, I mean, my artistic skills are more or less nonexistent. The thought of shaping a delicate, edible flower was, to be honest, a little bit intimidating. Yet, the appeal of learning a real craft, taught by people who, like, really know it, was too strong to pass up. I wanted to see if I could, in fact, create something beautiful and then enjoy it in the proper way. This is the story of what happened, so you can decide if it’s the right kind of adventure for your own time in Japan.

First Impressions and Finding the Studio

Finding the workshop was, you know, an adventure in itself. The instructions sent to me were very clear, but they basically led me away from the main tourist paths and deep into a residential part of the Gion district. It was the kind of area where you, sort of, feel like you are seeing the real city. The streets got narrower and quieter, with lovely old wooden houses called *machiya* lining the way. I could, you know, just about hear the distant hum of the city, but here, the main sounds were my own footsteps and the occasional bicycle bell. It’s pretty special when you find places like this, places that make you feel you have stumbled upon a local secret, and I recommend that if you want a similar feel to explore these spots that are less known to travelers. The air itself smelled different here, a bit like damp earth and the faint, sweet perfume of flowers from a hidden garden. Actually, it set a really peaceful mood before the class even started.

The studio itself was, to be honest, almost hidden. It was a traditional *machiya*, with a dark wooden lattice front and a small, understated sign with its name written in graceful calligraphy. There was this little blue curtain, a *noren*, hanging in the doorway, and pushing it aside felt, in a way, like entering a completely different world. Inside, the noise of the outside world just fell away. The entryway was cool and dim, and I was asked to take off my shoes on a smooth, stone floor before stepping up onto the tatami mats. The main room was, well, incredibly beautiful in its simplicity. Light from a paper-screen window bathed everything in a soft glow, illuminating the fine texture of the tatami underfoot and a single, elegant scroll painting on the wall. It was obvious that this place was not just a classroom; it was, you know, a space designed for quiet focus and appreciation.

A woman in a simple, lovely kimono greeted me with a gentle bow and a warm smile. She introduced herself as Akiko-san, our teacher for the day. Her presence was, you know, immediately calming. The whole room had this feeling of serene order. There were low wooden tables arranged neatly on the floor, with silk cushions for seating. At each place, the tools and ingredients were already laid out with what seemed like a lot of care. You could tell, basically, that every single object had its place and its purpose. I chose a spot by the window, overlooking a tiny private garden. The garden had, like, just a few perfectly placed rocks, some moss, and a single maple tree. Honestly, just sitting there and taking in the atmosphere was a very pleasant part of the entire experience.

Getting to Know Nerikiri: More Than Just a Sweet

Once our small group of four had all arrived and settled in, Akiko-san started to explain the history of *wagashi*, the general term for traditional Japanese sweets. She spoke in clear, careful English, with a passion that was, you know, really infectious. She told us that *wagashi* are not just about taste; they are an art form that deeply connects with the seasons. For instance, she showed us a book with pictures of different sweets, and each one was designed to represent a specific flower or natural scene from a certain time of year. Cherry blossoms in the spring, a clear stream in the summer, red maple leaves in autumn, and snow-covered pines in winter. It’s a very poetic idea, I mean, that your small treat reflects the world outside at that exact moment. For more ideas on what to eat while in Japan you should check this amazing list on seasonal foods in the country.

Then, she focused on what we would be making: *nerikiri*. Basically, she explained that it is a specific type of *wagashi* made from a base of sweet white bean paste, called *shiro-an*, and a glutinous rice flour called *gyuhi*, which gives it a soft, pliable texture. It is a little bit like marzipan or fondant in its consistency, but its flavor is, you know, uniquely Japanese—subtly sweet and earthy. She passed around a small bowl of the plain *nerikiri* dough for us to touch. It was surprisingly smooth and cool, with a texture almost like soft clay. She then showed us the natural colorings that would be used, things like matcha for green, beet for red, and gardenia fruit for yellow. It was actually fascinating to see how these vibrant colors came from completely natural sources.

The theme for our class, Akiko-san announced, was early summer. So, we would be making two designs: a hydrangea flower (*ajisai*) and a green plum (*aoume*). She had beautiful examples of both sitting on a small tray, and they looked almost too perfect to eat. Honestly, they were like tiny, edible sculptures. She explained the symbolism behind each one, how the hydrangea represents gratitude and the green plum signifies the start of the rainy season. This cultural context, you know, made the whole process feel much more meaningful. It wasn’t just about making something pretty; it was about participating in a tradition that is hundreds of years old. The way she described it made you appreciate how every tiny detail has a story and a reason behind it. It’s that kind of deep thinking that, sort of, makes the experience so much richer.

Hands-On with Nerikiri: Shaping Seasonal Art

Now, it was our turn to actually work. Akiko-san first showed us how to add color to the plain white bean paste dough. She gave each of us a small portion and showed how to add just a tiny speck of natural coloring with a toothpick. Then, the kneading process began. It was, you know, a very specific technique of folding and pressing the dough in your palm to distribute the color evenly without overworking it. My first attempt with the purple for the hydrangea was, to be honest, a bit streaky. Akiko-san came over and gently corrected my hand position, her movements so practiced and efficient. Her guidance was, basically, all about gentle encouragement, and she had a way of making you feel capable even when you felt clumsy. I think it is important when you learn something new like this to be open to instruction, just like you would if you picked up another language while traveling.

The next step was to wrap the colored dough around a small ball of *anko*, which is a sweet red bean paste that forms the filling. This was actually trickier than it looked. You had to flatten the outer dough into a perfect circle in your palm and then carefully enclose the *anko* ball, pinching the seams shut so it was completely seamless. My first one was, frankly, a bit lumpy. It’s the sort of thing that looks very easy when a master does it. I mean, her hands moved with a kind of fluid grace. After a couple of tries, though, I started to get the hang of it. There’s a particular feel you’re aiming for—a perfectly smooth, round ball. The room became very quiet, with everyone just focused on this one delicate task. It was, you know, incredibly meditative.

Once we had our smooth balls of filled dough, the real artistry began. For the hydrangea, we used a special tool called a *sankaku-bera*, a small triangular wooden stick, to make precise indentations that would form the little flower petals. Akiko-san showed us how to hold it and how much pressure to apply. She said, you know, “Think of the tool as an extension of your finger.” My hand was a bit shaky at first, and my indentations were not very uniform. Yet, slowly, a pattern started to emerge that actually looked a bit like a flower. We then placed tiny balls of yellow dough in the center. For the green plum, the process was different; it was more about shaping it into a perfect sphere and then using a cloth to create a soft, dimpled texture. It was amazing how these simple techniques could create such realistic-looking results. My finished nerikiri were definitely not as perfect as Akiko-san’s, but they were, you know, mine. And I was surprisingly proud of them.

The Art of Matcha: From Green Powder to a Perfect Bowl

With our little edible artworks finished and set aside, the focus of the class shifted, you know, to the second half of our cultural deep dive: matcha. Akiko-san led us through the transition seamlessly. She first explained what makes ceremonial matcha different from regular green tea that you might get in a bottle or a teabag. Basically, the tea leaves for matcha are shade-grown for several weeks before harvest. This process, she told us, boosts their chlorophyll and L-theanine content, which is what gives matcha its vibrant green color and its unique *umami* flavor—a kind of savory taste that is not really bitter. The leaves are then stone-ground into an incredibly fine powder. She let us see and smell the matcha powder. The color was, honestly, an unbelievably bright spring green, and the aroma was fresh and grassy, almost like freshly cut hay but sweeter.

Next, Akiko-san introduced the tools, which she called her “tea friends.” There was the *chawan*, a beautiful ceramic tea bowl that felt warm and solid in my hands. Each student had a slightly different one, and mine was a rustic brown with a glaze that pooled into a lovely shade of blue at the bottom. Then there was the *chasen*, the bamboo whisk, which is a truly incredible object made from a single piece of bamboo, split into a hundred or so fine tines. Finally, the *chashaku*, a long, thin bamboo scoop for measuring the powder. These tools feel very special, and just like other types of craft you can see how much attention goes into them, similar to when you learn about Japanese pottery on an artisan tour. She showed us how to hold each one properly, treating them with a kind of reverence that made you appreciate their craftsmanship.

Then came the practical part. First, we had to warm the bowl with hot water, and then wipe it dry with a special cloth called a *chakin*. This, you know, prepares the bowl for the tea. We then used the *chashaku* to scoop two measures of the bright green powder into the bowl. The next step was to sift it through a tiny sieve to make sure there were no lumps. This, she explained, is very important for creating a smooth, frothy tea. After sifting, we added a small amount of hot water—not boiling, as that would scorch the tea and make it bitter. And then, the whisking. Akiko-san demonstrated the motion, a rapid back-and-forth “W” or “M” shape, not a circular stir. “Keep your wrist loose,” she advised. It was, frankly, much harder than it looked. My arm got tired quickly, and my first attempt was not very frothy. She came by and helped me adjust my grip, and after a bit more furious whisking, a beautiful, jade-colored foam, or *o-usu*, began to form on the surface. The feeling of creating that perfect foam was, you know, incredibly satisfying.

Tasting and Reflection: The Sweet Culmination

So, this was the moment everything came together. Our handmade *nerikiri* were presented to us on small, beautiful plates. Beside them, our own freshly whisked bowls of matcha steamed gently, the foam a lovely pale green. Akiko-san instructed us on the proper etiquette. First, you are supposed to eat the sweet. I picked up my lopsided hydrangea. Taking a bite was, you know, a strange feeling after putting in the effort to make it. The taste was wonderful—the outer layer was soft and mild, giving way to the richer, earthier sweetness of the red bean paste filling inside. It was sweet, for sure, but not in an overwhelming way like many Western desserts. It was a more subtle, clean kind of sweetness. You could say that some experiences are better than just buying stuff, and this is true also if you want to understand Japanese cuisine, so in a way a food tour like one of these could provide you with a deeper look into their world.

After finishing the sweet, it was time for the tea. Akiko-san showed us how to pick up the *chawan* with two hands, placing it in the palm of your left hand and supporting it with your right. You are meant to turn the bowl slightly, about twice to the right, so that you avoid drinking from its “front,” which is often the most decorated part. It’s a gesture of humility, apparently. I took my first sip. The contrast with the sweet was, honestly, perfect. The matcha had a robust, verdant flavor, a little grassy, with that savory *umami* quality and only a hint of bitterness at the end. The warm liquid instantly cleansed the palate from the sweetness of the *nerikiri*. The combination made total sense. Each part really made the other one better. One without the other would have been, you know, a bit incomplete.

We sat in silence for a few minutes, just savoring the taste and the quiet atmosphere of the room. I looked around at the other participants. Everyone had this, you know, soft, contented look on their faces. There was a real sense of shared accomplishment and quiet enjoyment. It was more than just a snack; it was a full sensory experience. We had engaged our sense of touch while shaping the dough, our sight while appreciating the colors and forms, our smell with the aroma of the tea, and now, finally, our taste. It was, in some respects, a very mindful practice. It forces you to slow down and appreciate the small, beautiful details in front of you—a skill that is, you know, pretty easy to lose in our fast-paced daily lives. That quiet moment of reflection was, in its own way, just as valuable as the hands-on crafting part of the class.