I was once approached by a farmer for advice.

The request was to come up with a menu to sell at an event using the brown rice mochi I make myself. It’s early autumn, and the event will be held outdoors. When it comes to warm mochi dishes to enjoy in the cold, ozoni is the first thing that springs to mind.

But that alone isn’t very interesting. I wondered if I could come up with a combination that nobody had ever tried before.

Brown rice is rich in minerals, and when baked, it develops a toasty aroma that ordinary mochi lacks. Whilst I was wondering whether that toasty aroma might remind me of something, the idea of an apple pie sprang to mind. It is similar to the toasty aroma of baked pastry.

As apples are in season in autumn, they’re just right for this time of year. So, I made a compote with the apples, cut them into small pieces to make them easier to eat, and gave it a go.

However, when I tasted it, even combined with the sweet red bean paste, it still felt somewhat light. Something was missing. What was missing was the savoury richness of fat. But it mustn’t be too rich. It needed to be refreshing and not linger on the palate. I opted for mascarpone.

As soon as I added this at the very end, the whole dish really came together and tasted much better.

As it was the first recipe I’d ever created, I fancied surprising the farmer.

I invited them round to my house and held a tasting session. First, I asked them to try the dish up to the point where the apple had been added. Then, I added some mascarpone and asked them to try it again.

‘What’s this? You’re a genius!’

Their eyes went wide, and they polished off the whole meal.

At the event, too, many people tried it, saying things like, ‘Apple and mascarpone oshiruko? That sounds delicious,’ and ‘What does it taste like?’ I still remember the faces of the customers who smiled as they told me it was their first time trying it.

When you hear the word ‘ojirumon’, a certain image immediately springs to mind: sweet red bean paste and mochi. That is the ojirumon we all know. However, if we had stuck strictly to the traditional method, there would have been no room for apples or mascarpone.

I’d like to talk about oden once more. There was no single answer to the question of which was the ‘correct’ oden, because every region had its own version that was considered the right one.

At the time, I wrote that the fact there isn’t just one right answer was part of what makes cooking so interesting. But looking back now, I realise it wasn’t just about the fun of it.

Oden is a dish that has endured for hundreds of years without ever having a single ‘correct’ way of making it. The fact that there is no single ‘correct’ way has never been a flaw in the dish. On the contrary, it is precisely why it has endured. The absence of a single ‘correct’ way has, in fact, been a mechanism that has enabled the dish to survive.

Anything with a single, definitive correct answer is extremely robust as long as the conditions remain the same. There is no need to hesitate, and it is impossible to get it wrong. However, there is a weakness: when those conditions change, the whole thing collapses. This is because everything is staked on that single correct answer.

Of course, there are certain ingredients in cooking that simply cannot be replaced. However, when you look at a dish as a whole, you’ll see that, whilst there is a core that cannot be changed, there are still plenty of parts that can be substituted.

Take dashi, for example. If we were to decide that dashi made from this particular fish caught in this region is the only correct way, then in any year when that fish is no longer caught, that dish would disappear.

In reality, however, this has not been the case. If bonito is unavailable, flying fish is used instead; if that is not possible either, kelp or dried shiitake mushrooms are used. Whilst retaining the role of the stock, the ingredients have been substituted, and the tradition has continued. The core has remained unchanged, whilst the surrounding elements—which can be substituted—have adapted to changing circumstances.

There is one dish that illustrates this point most clearly: curry.

There is a sort of loose unwritten rule about curry: as long as you stick to this one thing, it counts as curry. Provided you stick to that rule, you have surprising freedom when it comes to the ingredients you put in it. It can be meat, fish, beans, or even just vegetables. The consistency and level of spiciness vary completely from region to region and from household to household.

On its journey from its place of origin, across many seas, to Japanese homes, curry has taken on completely different forms wherever it has gone. Yet, they are all still curry.

The interesting thing is the diner’s perspective. Even though the contents have changed so much, when it’s served in that form, the diner thinks, ‘Ah, it’s curry.’ They recognise it as a dish they’re familiar with.

When I come across a dish I’ve never tried before, I’m not sure what it will taste like, so I tend to be a bit wary. But if it looks like a curry, the reassurance that ‘I know this dish’ gives me the confidence to take that first bite.

From the cook’s perspective, the ingredients can be freely substituted. From the diner’s perspective, they can be eaten with confidence. I believe it is because these two factors go hand in hand that dishes like these have been able to spread far and wide, whilst still allowing for variations in the ingredients used.

That ozoni was the same. I think it was because it had that familiar combination of sweet red bean paste and mochi that so many people were intrigued enough to give it a try, even though it contained apple and mascarpone.

In cooking, there is always some leeway that cannot be filled simply by following the correct procedure to the letter. Whether to make it round or square, which vegetables to include, or what to use for the stock. It is up to the cook to fill in that leeway themselves each time. On that occasion, the discussion centred on how that leeway allows one to make the dish their own.

The same white space serves a different purpose when faced with change.

The fact that there is some leeway means that there are places where you can make substitutions. If you cannot get hold of this ingredient, you can use another one instead. If you don’t like this method, you can change it.

White space was not only a matter of the creator’s discretion, but also a margin that allowed for change. The fact that we had left room for flexibility meant that this very space provided the scope for future evolution.

There isn’t just one right answer.

This is not to say that a slapdash approach is acceptable. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Precisely because there is no single correct answer, the creator must, each time, consider the person in front of them, the materials at hand and the circumstances of the day, and choose the most appropriate solution anew. It requires far more thought than simply following a set formula.

It was the same with those brown rice mochi. By taking in the nutty aroma of the brown rice, observing the season and identifying what was missing, I made each decision one by one, and that dish was the result. I believe that dishes for which there is no single ‘correct’ answer have always required the cook to keep thinking.

And the times ahead will likely be characterised by even greater change than before. The fish we catch will change, the crops we grow will change, and our way of life will change. There will be an increasing number of situations where we cannot determine in advance what the right answer is.

In times like these, an approach to cooking that does not settle on a single ‘correct’ answer, but instead allows us to make fresh choices each time, may prove to be more reliable than we might have thought.

So, assuming there is no single correct answer, what do the creators actually use as a guide when choosing that day’s answer? First, let’s look at the closest thing: the materials right in front of us.

TERUMI ISHIBASHI

FARM8 Co. Ltd.,

Next chapter: ‘The Future Potential Nurtured by Cooking’ – Chapter 11: ‘That’s it for us.’