日報

I have several important phrases that I keep in mind, but the one I consider the most important is this:

"The Law of Disappointment After Effort"

This refers to the phenomenon where the word "disappointment" inevitably follows "effort," almost like a grammatical pairing.

When someone's reaction doesn't meet my expectations, or when what I'm trying to convey isn't understood by the other person, the feeling that often arises—"I made such an effort, but I'm disappointed"—is what I call "The Law of Disappointment After Effort."

I don't use this phrase to mean, "Oh, this kind of thing happens a lot, doesn't it?" Instead, I keep it in my heart as a lesson, a reminder to be careful not to fall into this state.

When I want to do something for someone, or when I want to convey something, it's easy to expect a certain outcome. But if I think about it carefully, my actions and what the other person receives are completely separate things. It's fundamentally wrong for me to expect something based on their reaction after they've received it. I've been able to think this way since I became aware of "The Law of Disappointment After Effort."

When I prepare a meal, I think of the other person, tailor it to their preferences, and put my heart into making it delicious for them. I'm happy just if they eat it. There's no need to let my feelings be swayed by their comments or atmosphere after they've eaten, nor is there any point in doing so. That way, I feel more at ease, and I feel like the other person also has a more pleasant time. Well, of course, I'd be happy if they told me it was delicious.

This is the phrase that prompted me to better control my emotions.

The Law of Disappointment After Effort.

When I'm filming a video and writing a recipe, I'm often tempted to write "to taste" for the quantities.

"As appropriate" is similar, but I especially want to write it for ingredients added at the very end, like salt and pepper, scallions, or sansho pepper.

Whether it's strong, mild, spicy, or sweet, there's no "right answer" when it comes to the taste of food. I always think it depends on "preference," so I'm tempted to write "to taste" with the feeling of "this part changes based on preference, so do as you like."

But, when I'm cooking from a recipe myself, it's often my first time, and I start cooking because I saw a great photo or video, and I want to make it as similar as possible. So I expect them to want me to be precise, even down to the "to taste" parts.

It's obvious if you think about it for a moment, but when you're the one writing the recipe, you tend to forget things like that.

So, I try my best not to use "as appropriate" or "to taste," but if someone feels like they want to try something a little different, I think that's the real joy of cooking, so I'd be happy if they would definitely adapt it to their own "preferences."

By the way, I only use "as appropriate" when the amount is less than 1/2 teaspoon.

I made ratatouille.
I had always wanted to make the beautiful ratatouille from the movie "Ratatouille", and I was happy that it turned out quite well when I finally made it.

I was surprised by the difference when I found out that the original title of "Ratatouille" was just "Ratatouille".

If I were asked what the most impressive dish in this movie was, I would probably say ratatouille.
Therefore, whether the movie's title is "Ratatouille" or not should significantly change the impression of the viewer, so translation can be quite a bold endeavor.

Watching the movie, I thought that ratatouille, as a dish, probably includes the element of "home cooking" in France.
That's why they probably changed the title in Japan, because simply calling it "Ratatouille" wouldn't convey that atmosphere.
If this movie were made in Japan, it would probably have been called "Nikujaga" or "Curry".
Or maybe straightforwardly "Home Cooking". That probably wouldn't have caught on.

The ratatouille I made, while thinking that overseas titles like "FROZEN" for "Frozen" are probably better when they're simple, was easier than I expected, beautiful, and delicious, so I recommend it as a hospitality dish.

Last night, I was doing desk work and before I knew it, it was dark. I didn't have time to cook, so I decided to order from UberEats.

It had been a while since I'd used Uber, and I noticed that there were many more restaurants than before. I had a fun time choosing, and spent so long that I almost defeated the purpose of ordering takeout. So, on an impulse, I decided on a congee shop I'd never tried before and placed my order.

It said it would take about 30 minutes to arrive. Thirty minutes flies by when you're not paying attention, but why does it feel so long when you're waiting? If it was going to take this long, maybe I should have just cooked something myself. I was so hungry that I couldn't concentrate, couldn't get any work done, and kept checking the Uber app. The moment the delivery person placed the congee in front of my door, the congee I had been so eagerly waiting for arrived, so much so that I was actually waiting on the other side of the door.

The moment I confirmed from the peephole that the delivery person was out of sight, I silently shouted "Thank you" in my heart, took the congee, and immediately started eating. It was incredibly delicious.

I recalled a memorable quote from an old colleague: "Congee makes you hungry again right after you eat it." I thought, "How true," and finished it in no time.

Even taking into account how famished I was, the congee was so good that I thought I might even go to the restaurant if I had a chance to be in the area.

After I finished eating, I wondered where the restaurant was located and searched for it on a map app, and something strange happened.

"◯◯ Congee Shop - Closed"

When I'm not feeling well, my car doesn't pick up speed. I'm not talking about exceeding the speed limit, but for some reason, I drive slower than usual. Perhaps because I'm down in the dumps, my foot feels like it doesn't have the strength to press the accelerator pedal.

When I'm feeling good, my car also doesn't pick up speed. Perhaps because I'm calm, I don't feel the need to rush, and my foot feels light on the accelerator pedal.

When I'm not feeling well, I feel like the rhythm of my knife when mincing is off. Maybe it's because I'm thinking about various things, but for some reason, I feel like my mincing lacks uniformity.

When I'm feeling good, I feel like I can mince well. The rhythm is good, and it goes "tan-tan-tan," so I think I can make beautifully minced ingredients.

I used to think that driving felt the same whether I was in a good mood or a bad mood, but with cooking, both the taste and appearance change depending on my mood. So, mincing wins the award as the indicator for measuring my mood barometer.

After mincing, if I just stir-fry the ingredients, even a bad mood gradually calms down. So, cooking is important not only as a mood barometer but also as a mood-calming device. The fact that delicious food is completed as a result is also wonderful.

The end of the year is fast approaching, and it's time to start thinking about a big clean-up to wash away a year's worth of dirt. I even updated my YouTube channel about it; I actually enjoy cleaning and organizing, so I think I'm one of those people who find it quite fun. Even so, there's one thing I always wonder about.

Why do I have to clean when it's so cold?

Cleaning involves water, and a lot of cleaning tasks require opening windows, so I always think it's too cold to do it in winter. I've considered doing it in spring instead of winter, but after a moment's thought, I know I'd never actually do it.

Even though I like cleaning and organizing, the year-end big clean is about tackling those places you usually avoid. And I feel like it's ingrained in my DNA to only do it at the end of the year. I've tried to leave a few things undone and finish them after the New Year several times, but I've never managed to get them done once the new year arrives.

It seems my disposition is such that once the new year begins, my mood resets, and I no longer notice last year's dirt. So, I'll steel myself, shout a famous line from a certain commercial, and get to it.

This year's dirt, clean it this year! I'm definitely tackling the range hood!