6.45 am. This is the busiest time of day in the kitchen.

I’ve closed the lid on my packed lunch and am about to start preparing breakfast. I’ve already served the rice. All that’s left is to heat up the soup, and I’ll just about make it in time. The weather forecast for today is on the telly. In my head, I’m working out the schedule for the time leading up to when I leave the house, down to the minute.

Just then, a child came along and said,

‘I’d like to crack an egg.’

Adults find themselves glancing at their watches.

I can pretty much guess what’s going to happen next. The shell might end up inside, or the yolk might get squashed. I might not be able to grip it properly and end up dropping it on the floor. If that happens, I’ll have to wipe my hands, my clothes and the floor. Whilst I’m wiping, the stew will reduce, and it’ll soon be time to serve.

So I say, ‘I’m busy at the moment, so let’s do it another time.’

There are all sorts of ways of saying it. ‘It’s dangerous, so let’s do it later.’ ‘You’ll spill it, so just watch.’ ‘I don’t have time today, so let’s do it next time we’ve got a day off.’

None of this is a lie. It really is dangerous, things do get spilt, and there’s no time to spare. And whichever way you put it, children usually back down without a fuss. They say ‘OK’ and go back to the telly.

So, as far as the adults are concerned, nothing remains. Not even the memory of having refused will probably remain.

This is not a situation where anyone should be blamed. There is no malice whatsoever. On the contrary, it is a time when adults are doing their very best to keep the family’s day running smoothly. In fact, it is quicker and more reliable for an adult to crack the egg. As far as this particular morning is concerned, I believe that decision was the right one.

However, there is just one thing I’d like to pause and think about.

If ‘See you next time’ is a one-off, nothing happens. But what happens to a child when this goes on repeatedly?

At first, I think to myself, ‘I’ll ask again tomorrow.’ The next morning, and the morning after that, I go over to the adult standing in the kitchen. But when I get the same reply every time, I gradually start to time my questions better—wondering, ‘Do they look busy today?’ or ‘Would today be a good time to ask?’

And then, from one day to the next, they’ll stop saying, ‘I’d like to try breaking it.’

It’s not that I no longer wanted to do it. I simply learnt that there was no point in saying anything.

At such times, what are we holding on to, and what are we letting go of?

What I am holding on to are the egg, the floor and a few minutes’ time. What I am letting go of is not the way to crack an egg—it is rather that whole sequence of experiences: reaching out to things that don’t go to plan, failing, and still trying again.

And the opportunities to gain that sort of experience aren’t limited to cracking a single egg. You might want to try peeling it, mixing it or cooking it. In the kitchen, there are plenty of such opportunities to be found every single day.

Up to this point, I’ve been writing as if I were talking about children. However, the people who probably hear this phrase, ‘See you next time’, most often are not children.

It’s me.

Have you ever experienced something like this?

I find myself wondering if I could make that dish I had at the restaurant at home. But I’m too tired today.I’ll leave it for another time, when I’ve got more time. I’ve cut out a recipe I saw in a magazine, thinking I’d give it a go. The clipping just ends up stuck to the fridge. The utensils I bought, thinking I’d use them one day, are tucked away at the back of a cupboard. I haven’t even taken them out of the box yet.

None of them are a big deal. Even if you don’t make them, nobody will be any the worse for it.

But this, too, is a case of ‘next time’. It’s just that the other person has become myself; what’s happening is exactly the same.

And the same thing that happens to children happens to adults too. As you keep putting things off time and again, you gradually find yourself unable to come up with any ideas.

The number of times I feel like ‘I’d like to give that a go’ is gradually dwindling. Before I know it, whether I’m looking through a magazine or eating out, I find myself thinking, ‘Come to think of it, I haven’t felt like trying to make that myself recently.’

It’s not that I no longer want to do it. Perhaps, just like a child, whilst repeatedly saying ‘next time’, I’ve simply got used to putting those feelings aside.

It is these things that quietly fade into the background that we shall be exploring in this book.

I have been teaching cookery for many years, both to children and adults in my classes. As a result, I have heard people say, ‘I’d like to give it a go,’ countless times.

And then, at some point, I realised something.

Perhaps what I was teaching wasn’t actually cooking.

Every time a class ends, I’m left with a slight nagging feeling. As they’re leaving, the participants don’t talk about the recipes. Hardly anyone asks to check the quantities again.

Instead, they leave after chatting about things like, ‘When I cut it open, the inside was this colour,’ or ‘I wonder if I could make this in a saucepan at home,’ or ‘My child actually ate it for a change’. Some people laughed as they said they didn’t know when to turn off the heat, whilst others remarked that the smell had lingered on their hands for ages.

I thought I’d given them the recipe, but nobody’s mentioning it.

That nagging feeling never went away, no matter how many years passed.

Of course, I don’t think giving them the recipe was a waste of time. Having the quantities and instructions written down does make one feel more at ease when cooking. However, it seems that what that person took away with them was something that couldn’t be put down on paper.

What I was actually passing on in the classroom wasn’t a recipe. So what was it, then? For a long time, I didn’t know.

One thing is clear.

What I mean is that I didn’t teach him that feeling of ‘wanting to break it’.

When a child comes into the kitchen and reaches for an egg, that movement is not something they have learnt from someone else. Even before they have been taught anything, people already want to give it a go.

It was the same with the adults. In the classroom, when they witnessed a moment when something changed right before their eyes, many of them would lean forward. I have never once taught them to adopt that forward-leaning posture.

What I was observing in the classroom may not have been the moment that feeling first arose, but rather the moment when something that had receded into the background resurfaced once more.

If that is the case, where was it to begin with? What is the true nature of this thing that has been relinquished time and again, yet still remains, refusing to disappear?

What, exactly, is cooking? When taken to its logical conclusion, the question I posed at the outset boils down to this one point. What is really happening in that very moment when, in the kitchen, I reach for an egg?

To find out, we’ll look at things starting from the closest places: in the classroom; in the kitchen at home; and then at the hands of each person as they cook.

First of all, I’d like to talk about how I myself have approached food. Let me begin by telling you about a time when I was rather self-centred.

TERUMI ISHIBASHI

FARM8 Co. Ltd.,

Next chapter: ‘The Future Potential Nurtured by Cooking’ – Chapter 2: Cooking for Others