‘So, basically, it’s about buying rubbish cheaply, tweaking it a bit, and selling it on at a higher price, isn’t it?’

This was a comment I received from a visitor whilst I was talking about the processing of sake lees at an event. It was their response after I had explained the mindset with which I approach sake lees.

To be honest, I was lost for words at that moment.

However, as time went by, I found myself thinking back on those words time and again. This is because, factually speaking, what this person said was not incorrect.

Sake lees are a by-product of the sake-brewing process. They are what remains after the sake has been pressed, and some breweries struggle with what to do with them. Some varieties can be obtained relatively cheaply. It is also true that people are processing them further and attempting to sell them at a profit. When you look at the situation as a whole, you can see that the scenario described by that person is indeed playing out.

Even so, I simply could not bring myself to believe that what he had said referred to the very same thing I was looking at.

Looking at the same sake lees, that person saw nothing more than the residue left over after the brewing process had run its course. To me, however, it appeared as a rich, fermented ingredient, created through the interplay of yeast and koji.

It is not that one of them is lying. There was just one object, and two different perspectives on it. That is all.

However, it is this difference in perspective that determines what becomes of it. Those who see it as rubbish treat it as such. Those who see it as a raw material treat it as such. Although sake lees have existed alongside sake brewing for hundreds of years, their ultimate fate has always been determined by the perspective of the observer.

That day, I didn’t talk back. Nor do I regret not having done so.

This is because one’s perspective rarely changes through words alone. No matter how often you repeat that ‘it’s not rubbish, it’s a raw material’, the other person’s view remains unchanged. Their perspective probably only shifts when something happens right before their eyes. Something they thought was mere pulp turns out to be unexpectedly delicious. Only that moment can shift their perspective.

I cannot hand out questions; I can only lead you to moments of surprise. The same applied to perspectives. What I can offer is not the perspective itself, but rather the moment when that perspective shifts.

Here is one example.

In Niigata Prefecture, there is an ingredient known as ‘lactic-fermented sake lees’, which is produced by adding lactic acid bacteria to sake lees and allowing it to ferment. At a recent event, a local producer was selling it, but it was so sour that people who tried it couldn’t help but grimace. There were comments along the lines of, ‘With it being this sour, I’ve no idea how to use it at home.’

However, if you follow the instructions, you’ll see something different.

Lactic acid bacteria are added to sake lees and left to ferment. The basic concept is similar to that of yoghurt, which is made by fermenting milk with lactic acid bacteria. If that is the case, then rather than simply being overly sour sake lees, this can be regarded as a sort of ‘sake lees yoghurt’. And if delicious things can be made from yoghurt, then surely they can be made from this ingredient too.

It was this perspective that led to the creation of gelato made from lactic-fermented sake lees. The tartness that used to make people grimace becomes a real asset in gelato.

The ingredients haven’t changed at all. It’s still sour. The only thing that has changed is how we view it—as part of which group.

I have also witnessed such moments—when one’s perspective changes—in people’s lives.

I once showed a certain chef how to make preserved foods. This chef is so skilled that I am in no position to offer advice. After learning the methods, he suddenly began making all sorts of preserved foods. I think the expression ‘like a dam bursting’ comes closest to describing it.

It wasn’t just a matter of having learnt a new technique. Even the cooking skills I’d already possessed began to take on a different purpose. What changed was not so much my skill itself, but the way it was perceived.

Until then, for this chef, his food had been something to be eaten on the spot: served on a plate and consumed on the same day. But he began to see it as something that could be preserved, taken outside the restaurant, and turned into a product.

Although they had always been able to make these things, they hadn’t realised they could. The moment they realised, it seemed as though the range of things this person could do had suddenly expanded.

When the way a material is perceived changes, its potential changes. When the way one’s work is perceived changes, one’s potential changes. Although these two may seem like separate things, they are two sides of the same coin.

On another occasion, I held a lesson on rice with the children.

It was a request from the Year 5 class teacher. The lesson involved the pupils naming and selling the rice they had grown themselves.

The children in this class had a heated argument over the names of different types of rice. Come to think of it, it was a rather strange sight. Why on earth would they argue so fiercely over the names of rice varieties?

The answer is simple: it is because that rice is theirs. They planted it, tended it and harvested it themselves, and it is they who will now give it a name and bring it to market.

People feel a sense of ownership towards things where they have had a say in the decision-making process. In this class, the decisions we make aren’t just about the seasoning. We decide everything ourselves—the name, the appearance and how to sell it. That’s why nobody can afford to act as if it’s none of their business.

Throughout this lesson, rice takes on many different forms. Rice as something to be planted and cultivated. Rice as something to be observed. Rice as food. And rice as a commodity—given a name, packed into bags, priced, and sold to customers.

It is the same rice. Not a single grain has changed. Yet, simply by adding the perspective of selling it, agriculture, design, sales and local employment have all become interconnected. The subjects taught separately at school and the jobs that adults do in the town come together to form a single picture, all centred on a single grain of rice.

Although the children seemed to be arguing about rice, it was actually a starting point for discussions about work and delivery.

And this is also about my current job.

I am currently involved in product development for food and Japanese sake. To put it simply, this job is essentially about making a career out of looking at things from a different perspective.

Local materials; materials that seem to have only one obvious use; materials that are lying around unused. We look at them from a different angle, transform them into forms that can be incorporated into everyday life, and present them to the world.

The essence of what I do hasn’t changed since the days when I used to talk about how to look at vegetables in the classroom. It’s simply that my audience has shifted from course participants to customers, and what I offer has changed from courses to products.

However, there is something I must mention.

Changing your perspective does not necessarily mean that possibilities will take shape. Even when you change your perspective, things may still not work out. Just like the person at that event, there are times when what is visible to us remains invisible to the other person right until the very end.

Your perspective does not guarantee success.

However, there is one thing that is certain: possibilities can only ever be seen when you look at them from a different angle.

As long as it looks like rubbish, sake lees will always remain rubbish. As long as it looks like a dish that vanishes before your eyes, no processed product will ever be created. Not everything we see takes shape, but what we cannot see will never take shape at all.

What is it that makes a person take the initiative?

Everyone we’ve looked at so far had one thing in common. There was the person who saw the pulp as a raw ingredient; the chef who saw a dish that vanishes on the spot as a product; and the children who saw ordinary rice as their own. The moment something appeared different to them, they sprang into action.

But is it really enough for people to simply see things differently in order to keep moving forward? What is it that transforms a single discovery into a source of strength for that person?

TERUMI ISHIBASHI

FARM8 Co. Ltd.,

Next chapter: ‘The Future Potential Nurtured by Cooking’ – Chapter 5: Where Potential Flourishes