When people’s perspective changes, they start to take action. However, starting to take action and keeping at it are two different things.

A momentary sense of wonder may fade by the next day. Just because you’ve managed to do something once doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll be able to do it a second time. For a discovery to develop into a person’s true strength, something is needed to sustain the momentum once they’ve got started.

Looking back, the kitchens we have seen so far were equipped with a number of features designed to support people as they go about their daily activities.

Firstly, there is the fact that failure does not mean the end.

There’s something I’ve always found puzzling whilst teaching cookery. It’s often the people whose dishes didn’t turn out well that day who come up to me as they’re leaving. Those whose dishes didn’t set properly, didn’t rise, or didn’t taste as they’d hoped.

In many situations in life, people who make a mistake tend to keep quiet. They try not to draw attention to themselves and wait for the moment to pass. Yet in cookery classes, the opposite happens.

Wondering why, I took a closer look at what constitutes a culinary mishap.

If the flavour is too mild, you can simply add more. If it’s too strong, you can often dilute it with water or stock. Minor mishaps can usually be rectified. If that still doesn’t work, there’s always tomorrow’s breakfast. The chance to make up for your mistake will come of its own accord in a few hours’ time.

What’s more, there’s probably no one who still remembers the miso soup I made last year that turned out far too salty. Mistakes at work leave a record behind, and mistakes made in public leave people staring. In contrast, kitchen mishaps usually disappear once you’ve eaten and tidied up.

Even when they failed, that wasn’t the end of the story. So, rather than getting downhearted, they started to think: why hadn’t it set, and what should they do next?

That question, asked just as I was leaving, was the sort that could only have come up in a place where I knew it was all right to make a mistake.

However, this does not mean that you can afford to make mistakes just because you are cooking.

It reminds me of the school meals at nursery. When it came to managing allergies, there was no room for second chances. Although it is a place where food is prepared every day, it is a place where mistakes are simply not tolerated. Even with the same dish, the gravity of a mistake changes depending on the setting.

It’s the same in the kitchen at home. Just think of that same mistake: dropping an egg on the floor.

In one kitchen, it might simply be a case of ‘Shall we have another go?’. In another, you might be met with a sigh and the words, ‘I told you so’. The dropped egg is the same; the effort required to wipe it up is the same. Yet, in one kitchen, a mistake becomes a minor hurdle to overcome, whilst in the other, it becomes a reason not to volunteer next time.

What the child is looking at is not the egg, but the adult’s face at the very moment the egg falls.

That scene in the kitchen that morning takes on a different perspective here.

That morning, the question was not merely whether there were a few minutes left to crack the eggs. It was whether this kitchen was a place where failure did not spell the end. That was what was at stake in that single moment.

‘It’s OK to fail, so just give it a go.’ This simple phrase is not a permission; it is a declaration of a place. It says: this is a place where failure does not mean the end.

And cooking is an activity that allows us to make that declaration time and again in our daily lives. To use a cycling analogy, it requires a willingness to accept the risk of scrapes and grazes; in the context of work, it means being prepared to shoulder the burden of tidying up afterwards. In the kitchen, however, all it takes is a few minutes’ worth of mopping the floor.

Next, there are things you are free to decide for yourself.

Once they realise this, people begin to make their own decisions.

Let’s say I’m making a bowl of miso soup tonight. How many decisions do I make whilst doing so? I decide on the ingredients, how to chop them, the proportions of stock and water, and when and how much miso to add. Even in making a single bowl of miso soup, there are countless unnamed decisions.

However, I am not consciously aware of having made any of these decisions. In the kitchen, without being taught by anyone and without even realising it, small decisions are made day in, day out.

Some people say they’re simply following the recipe to the letter. But take a closer look at the recipe. Even if it says ‘fry over a medium heat’, it doesn’t specify exactly what constitutes a medium heat. As for ‘a pinch’ of salt, it’s up to you to decide how many grams that is.

The words in a recipe may seem like instructions, but they all call for interpretation. Interpretation means making small decisions. No matter how faithfully you follow a recipe, the finished dish will always contain elements that you have decided upon.

Why is that particular part so important?

This sort of thing happens in the classroom. When I step in to correct someone’s cutting technique, they start to cook whilst looking at my face rather than at their own pan. The moment they leave the decision to me, they transform from a cook into someone who simply follows instructions.

Even if you do something well, it becomes a case of ‘I did it because I was told to’; and even if you fail, it becomes a case of ‘I did exactly as I was told’. Things you haven’t decided for yourself do not become your own. Experiences that are not your own do not add up over time.

Seeing it with my own eyes makes me realise once again just how special the kitchen is. In everyday life, there are so many things I cannot decide on my own. Amidst all that, the kitchen is one of the few places where I can decide for myself what to make, how to make it, and when it’s good enough. I need no one’s permission, and the results come straight back to me.

However, making decisions isn’t always a good thing.

I’ve heard countless people say that the hardest part of making dinner isn’t actually cooking it, but deciding what to make. On a tiring day, buying ready-made meals and letting go of the decision-making isn’t laziness—it’s a well-deserved rest.

Decision-making becomes enjoyable when there are just the right number of things left for you to decide. Having to decide everything is exhausting, whilst having everything decided for you is dull.

The great thing about cooking is that you can adjust this balance yourself. Perhaps today you’re feeling tired, so you’ll stick to the recipe; or perhaps today you’ll try using your own judgement in just one aspect. You might change just one ingredient in your usual miso soup. Just by doing that—in that one specific way—the dish becomes your own.

And the sense of satisfaction that comes from knowing you’ve done it.

When you decide for yourself and make something, the finished product remains right there in front of you.

The expressions on people’s faces when they are presented with a finished dish are remarkably similar, regardless of their age. Once the dish has been plated, their hands pause and they simply gaze at it for a moment. Children will run off to call someone over, saying, ‘Look, look!’ Adults, on the other hand, will smile with a hint of shyness.

And, almost without fail, I make a few final tweaks at the very end. Even though it’s already perfectly presentable, I might move a single leaf or wipe the rim of the plate. That extra touch has nothing to do with the flavour. I think it’s simply the feeling that ‘I made this’ that comes through in my actions.

When a dish is ready, it gives off steam and a fragrant aroma, and remains on the plate. It can be seen, carried by hand, and eaten. Something that had no form or trace just an hour ago has, through my own hands, come to be right there before me.

The skills you gain from cooking last far longer than knowledge you’ve simply learnt by heart.

There was a follow-up to that butter-making class. Some time later, one of the children came back to say, ‘That butter was absolutely delicious.’ They’d shaken the bowl until their arms were tired, heard the sound change, and felt the butter take shape in their own hands. The memory of that experience remained vivid.

And what they have created will not simply be tucked away as a memento, but will serve as a stepping stone to the next stage. Those who have managed to do it once in the classroom may feel that they can do it at home too. Those who have managed to do it once at home will be able to do it again.

You see, within those reports of ‘having started to make things’, there is a cumulative process: the first attempt was successful, the second made it easier, and the third followed on from the second—that progression is all contained within them.

What happens when these small achievements build up over many years? It was Ms S who showed us just that. In her monthly workshops, she would try out what she’d learnt in the vegetable patch and in the kitchen, accumulating small successes year after year. A single success brings joy, but when they accumulate, they build confidence.

That stance—the sense that I was someone who was entitled to talk about vegetables—lay beyond that.

That said, there are days when I can’t manage it. There are days when I burn things, days when the flavour just isn’t quite right, and days when I can’t even bring myself to go into the kitchen. If I manage to make something one day, does that mean I’ll give up trying the next time if I don’t succeed?

When it comes to cooking, you can decide for yourself what constitutes ‘finished’.

Whilst others decide the passing mark for an exam, you decide the passing mark for tonight’s dinner. On a tiring day, if you’ve cooked the rice and made some miso soup, that’s good enough. On a day when a fanciful dish doesn’t quite come together, if you’ve managed to get it to a stage where it’s edible, that’s good enough too.

The success of a dish depends entirely on you, depending on how high you set the bar.

Finally, it’s about getting a reply.

It seems that the dish I’ve made isn’t something I can finish on my own.

The classroom gets noisier not whilst the children are making their dishes, but when they’re comparing them. ‘Try this—it’s from our group!’ they’d call out. The children weren’t just keen to taste others’ dishes; they were also keen to let others try theirs.

When you’ve made something, you want to show it off, talk about it, and—in the case of food—you want people to try it.

Whenever you serve someone a meal, you’re bound to get something in return. Some days you’ll hear ‘That was delicious’; other days, a silent request for seconds. Sometimes you’ll hear ‘It was a bit strong today’; other times, the only response is the leftover side dishes.

Not all the replies are positive. However, it’s very rare not to receive a reply at all. Whether they’ve eaten it or left it—even that, in itself, counts as a reply.

If you make it, it reaches its destination. If it reaches its destination, it comes back. Cooking is an act that elicits a response.

Come to think of it, my very first ‘response’ was baby food. When I held out a spoon, they would either open their mouth or not. Even though they couldn’t speak yet, they would always give me a response. Cooking began with imagining the person I was cooking for. And it is the person eating the food who responds to that imagination.

There is another side to the reply.

Precisely because cooking is an activity that involves receiving a response, the sense of loneliness when that response is no longer forthcoming is all the more profound. You cook, yet no one says a word. You sit down at the table, yet everyone is staring at their screens.

I often hear people say that cooking every day is a struggle, but in many cases, it is not the actual work that is difficult, but rather the fact that they have to carry on cooking without receiving any response. The fatigue of cooking sets in not so much as tired hands, but as the weariness that comes from receiving no response.

Put another way, what the diner can do is simpler than you might think. Simply say something in response. It doesn’t matter whether you say ‘That’s delicious’ or ‘That’s quite strong’—it doesn’t matter. What the cook wants is not praise, but a sign that their efforts have been received.

And then, based on that feedback, I prepare the next dish. If someone says, ‘That was quite rich today,’ I’ll make the next one a little lighter. As I clear away the small bowls, I ponder whether it was the way I cut the ingredients or the portion size. It is because of this feedback that the next dish can be slightly different from today’s. The reason my cooking is constantly evolving is that I receive feedback from my diners every single day.

So, what about meals you eat on your own?

I don’t think eating alone is a shortcoming. Even meals eaten alone elicit a response. The packed lunch I prepare in the evening is a meal for my future self at lunchtime. When I open the lid at lunchtime, my future self sends a clear message back to my present self: ‘I’m glad I packed this.’

It simply means that the other person is oneself.

Let’s try lining up the four of them. Even if you make a mistake, it’s not the end of the world. You’re free to decide for yourself. The feeling of ‘I’ve done it’ lingers. And then you get a reply.

These events did not occur in isolation. They all unfolded as a single, continuous sequence during a single evening meal. Because I feel at ease, I try making my own decisions. Because I decide and act upon those decisions, the results come back to me. Because I deliver what I have created, I receive a response.

And that reply leads to the next ‘Why?’ or ‘I’d like to give it a go’, which means I end up back in the kitchen again. I’m just going round in circles, over and over.

It was this cycle that kept those people—whose perspectives had changed and who had begun to take action—moving forward.

And, if you look for it, there aren’t many places where this entire cycle comes together. It comes round every day, the losses are minimal, the decisions are in your own hands, the results remain in the form of steaming food, and you get feedback from those who eat it.

The kitchen was a place where the conditions necessary for developing strength were naturally woven into the fabric of daily life.

So, what sort of power was it, exactly, that was developing within this cycle?

TERUMI ISHIBASHI

FARM8 Co. Ltd.,

Next chapter: ‘The Future Skills Nurtured by Cooking’ – Chapter 6: Six Future Skills