NEKKA
ねっか
Shochu
NEKKA
Fukushima, Oku-Aizu Distillery
This spirit is distilled from the landscape itself.
In Tadami, Fukushima, winter buries the world under three meters of snow. In spring, meltwater fills the paddies, turning the earth into a mirror for the sky. Yet, this breathtaking scenery was fading. As hands left the soil, the fields began to sleep.
Five farmers and one distiller stood up. “To protect the fields, we brew.” Nekka. In the dialect of Oku-Aizu, it is a word of emphasis—meaning “totally” or “truly.” Facing the threat of extinction, they chose to nod “Yes.” That backbone became their name.
They grow, harvest, and distill entirely by hand. The mash, fermented with Ginjo yeast, swells like a seed beneath snow. If pressed, it would be fine Ginjo sake. Instead, they distill it—a luxurious sacrifice made to birth a specific, blooming aroma.
In midwinter, the heavy snow acts as a natural cooling system for the small still. Using heat softer than a human breath, they coax the spirit out. It is delicate work, like catching a butterfly without brushing the powder from its wings. From 500 liters of mash, only 180 remain. The more that is lost, the clearer the truth becomes.
Bring the glass close. Fresh notes of apple and Ginjo rise. On the tongue, the roundness of rice wraps the senses, followed by a clean, surgical finish that brings cuisine into sharp focus.
Spring returns. Meltwater fills the paddies. The sky is reflected once more. As long as this spirit flows, the landscape survives.
“Nekka sasukenee.” Everything will be all right.
In Tadami, Fukushima, winter buries the world under three meters of snow. In spring, meltwater fills the paddies, turning the earth into a mirror for the sky. Yet, this breathtaking scenery was fading. As hands left the soil, the fields began to sleep.
Five farmers and one distiller stood up. “To protect the fields, we brew.” Nekka. In the dialect of Oku-Aizu, it is a word of emphasis—meaning “totally” or “truly.” Facing the threat of extinction, they chose to nod “Yes.” That backbone became their name.
They grow, harvest, and distill entirely by hand. The mash, fermented with Ginjo yeast, swells like a seed beneath snow. If pressed, it would be fine Ginjo sake. Instead, they distill it—a luxurious sacrifice made to birth a specific, blooming aroma.
In midwinter, the heavy snow acts as a natural cooling system for the small still. Using heat softer than a human breath, they coax the spirit out. It is delicate work, like catching a butterfly without brushing the powder from its wings. From 500 liters of mash, only 180 remain. The more that is lost, the clearer the truth becomes.
Bring the glass close. Fresh notes of apple and Ginjo rise. On the tongue, the roundness of rice wraps the senses, followed by a clean, surgical finish that brings cuisine into sharp focus.
Spring returns. Meltwater fills the paddies. The sky is reflected once more. As long as this spirit flows, the landscape survives.
“Nekka sasukenee.” Everything will be all right.
