I’m going to be honest about what I used to eat in my twenties.
I used to eat whatever I fancied, whenever I fancied it. I’d eat when I was hungry and skip a meal if I wasn’t. I’d decide how much to eat based on the figure on the scales. Back then, my criteria for eating were entirely my own. Whether something tasted good or not, and when to eat it—it all depended on my own convenience and mood.
Although I was supposed to be studying nutrition, that knowledge remained just that—knowledge—and didn’t really find its way onto my own dinner table.
I don’t think that was a bad thing. It’s just that, back then, my cooking was a completely solitary experience—from the moment I started preparing it right through to the moment I ate it. It was the sort of food I could cook without picturing anyone’s face.
It wasn’t that I lacked knowledge. If asked what and how much I should eat, I’m sure I could have answered. Even so, my eating habits didn’t change. Although I understood it in my head, my body wouldn’t follow. It was as if I were proving to myself that knowledge alone is not enough to motivate people.
There was something I only realised after my child was born and I started breastfeeding.
What I eat is connected to this child’s body. Although I knew this in my head, it was only when I felt the weight in my arms that I truly realised it for the first time.
I had always thought that eating was a personal matter. That assumption is now being shattered here.
Once we started weaning, there was suddenly so much more to think about. Is it okay to give them this food yet? How finely should I mash it? Is it too hot? Why won’t they open their mouth today, even though they ate it yesterday?
When it came to cooking for adults, I’d simply taste the food and, if it tasted good to me, that was enough. But with weaning food, I can’t rely on my own taste buds alone. After all, the one eating it is someone who can’t speak yet. So, I have no choice but to imagine. Will they be able to swallow it at this consistency? Depending on their mood and how they’re feeling today, just how much will they be able to eat?
As I brought the spoon to my mouth, I would make a little prediction each time. And the other person would respond to that prediction every time—whether they opened their mouth or not, whether they spat it out or swallowed it. On days when it didn’t go to plan, I would adjust the consistency and the temperature, and try again.
Looking back, that was my first attempt at cooking for someone else. Cooking had already begun long before I even stood at the hob—it began with the time spent thinking of the person I was cooking for.
After that, I took a job preparing meals at a nursery.
I was making enough for several dozen people. However, those several dozen people were not simply a single group of children. Some children have an egg allergy. Some cannot eat dairy products. Some cannot eat pork for religious reasons. And there are very young children whose molars haven’t yet come through.
Even though the menu lists the same school meals for a given day, in the kitchen, the same dishes are prepared in a variety of different ways. For this child, a particular ingredient is left out. For these children, the food is cut into smaller pieces and made softer. The experienced school cook I worked with did all this as a matter of course.
Dealing with allergies is not about taste, but about safety. There is no room for error. That is precisely why the procedures were carried out calmly and meticulously. If one fails to think things through, not only will someone be unable to eat, but someone will also be put at risk.
And yet, that tension never spills over into the world outside the kitchen. By the time the food reaches the children, it looks just like any ordinary school meal.
My perspective on what a menu is also changed whilst working in this kitchen. A menu is not simply a list of dish names. It is only complete when overlaid with a list of who will be eating it. Today’s school lunch, for instance, becomes a slightly different meal for each child.
School meals simply cannot function if those preparing them do not know who they are serving.
The steps involved in cooking for yourself and cooking for someone else are the same: chopping, cooking and seasoning. The difference lies in what comes before and after. Before you start, you have time to think about the other person. After you’ve finished, you receive a response from them.
In my twenties, when I cooked solely for myself, I had no idea that there was such a side to cooking. I suppose that, even though it bore the same name, it was actually a different pursuit altogether.
However, something rather strange happens here.
Since you’re making something with a specific person in mind, you’d think there would be only one answer: ‘This firmness for this child, this flavour for that person.’ In reality, however, the opposite happens. The more you think about the other person, the more answers there are.
It was in the children’s classroom that this was most clearly evident.
Just before Hinamatsuri, someone made me a chirashi-zushi cake.
The ingredients were the same for every group: the same vinegared rice and the same fillings. The only instruction we gave was to make a Hina Matsuri cake; apart from that, we left it entirely up to the groups. We did not show them any examples of how to make it.
At first, the children watch us cautiously. They look as though they’re thinking, ‘Surely someone must know the right way to do this.’ But when they realise no one has the answer, they start discussing it within their groups. Should they make it round or square? Should they stack the layers or spread them out flat?
The same sushi rice took on completely different shapes in each group. There were groups that piled it high until it was on the verge of collapsing, groups that kept adjusting their decorations right up to the last minute, and groups that got into discussions about what to do with the leftover ingredients. And every child in every group looked as though they thought their own cake was the best.
At times like this, there’s something I always find myself thinking: ‘What would have happened if I’d shown them the correct way to do it right from the start?’
Presumably, every group must have made a very similar cake. If there is a model, the children will look at it. They’ll compare it with what they’ve made to check that it’s correct. If there is no model, they have no choice but to rely on the ingredients, their classmates and their own judgement.
Either way, the cake will turn out fine. The difference lies in what the child was looking at whilst it was being made.
Surely there must be a ‘correct’ way to cook a dish? I’m sure some of you think so. I, too, used to believe that, at one time or another. One of the things that helped me let go of that preconception was oden.
In one of my classes, we once looked into oden from across the country. The stock varies. The ingredients vary. In some regions, they sprinkle powdered stock over the dish to finish it off, whilst in others, they eat it with miso rather than mustard.
In Shizuoka, one child said they’d never seen black hanpen before, having only just learnt that it was used there. For children, ‘oden’ is synonymous with the version they have at home. Yet, whilst retaining the same name, it is found all over Japan as a dish that varies completely from region to region.
To be honest, I am not aware of any typical local dish in Niigata—where this class took place—that is commonly referred to as ‘Niigata oden’. There is, however, a similar stewed dish called ‘noppe’. Depending on the region, it is also known as ‘ōumi’ or ‘kono’. The same dish has spread throughout the prefecture under different names. Even so, it has never been called ‘oden’.
That is precisely why I think that, to the children, all these dishes were equally ‘foreign’, and the differences came across to them simply as something fun.
Which is the right one? There is no single answer to this question. Every region has its own seas and mountains, its own resources, its own climate and its own way of life; within these contexts, each has come to be regarded as the right one.
Here, we find the answer to the mystery mentioned earlier.
If we create dishes with the diner in mind, why is there no single correct answer? It is because the diner is different every time. The person eating it is different, the region is different, the season is different, and their physical condition on that particular day is different. If we were to fix a single ‘correct’ answer, we would inevitably be leaving out one of these factors.
The reason the number of recipes kept increasing was not because the cooking was haphazard, but because each dish had been prepared specifically to suit the person sitting opposite.
And the fact that there isn’t just one answer means, from the creator’s perspective, that there are always aspects left for them to decide for themselves.
Should it be round or square? Which vegetables should I use? What should I use to make the stock? When it comes to cooking, there are always these elements that are left up to you. Whilst recipes may narrow down these options, they can never eliminate them entirely.
The reason why the children in every group thought their cake was the best had nothing to do with the taste. It was because they were the ones who had decided on its shape.
I don’t think cooking is simply a matter of following a set of instructions decided by someone else. It’s about filling in the gaps with your own touch, every single time. That’s where the real fun of cooking lies.
TERUMI ISHIBASHI
FARM8 Ltd.,
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