日報

Words are incredibly useful, but I find them quite difficult to use.

Whether it's seeing arguments erupting everywhere, or my own experience of things escalating with someone, it always seems to be triggered by words.

Words are the most convenient tool for conveying something, so most of what we communicate to others happens through words.

...Having written this much, I wondered if that's really true.

I convey what I want to say with words, but isn't most of what is actually conveyed through attitude? I feel like "atmosphere" could be another way to put it.

When I want to convey something, I try my best to do so skillfully with words, but it's precisely at those times that I feel somehow it doesn't get across well. Perhaps it's because words become a one-way street, and I just selfishly talk about what I want to convey to the other person.

Hmm. Words are difficult.

From here on, it might be a bit of a stretch, but in such times, cooking seems good. Making something delicious with all your heart, I feel, can convey something to the other person more than words ever could.

Wanting to get along with someone, or wanting to eat a meal together with someone you're close to, must be that kind of feeling. "The way to a man's heart is through his stomach" is a saying for a reason.

For a long time, I misunderstood the word "yakubusoku" to mean "insufficient ability." At some point, I learned that it actually means the complete opposite: "a role or task that is too small for one's capabilities." I always thought it was a confusing word and wished I could use it in its correct sense.

The other day, while having dinner with a friend, the conversation turned to, "I didn't realize how amazing that person was, and I ended up asking them to do a trivial task." I thought this was my chance and said, "That was yakubusoku, wasn't it?" My friend replied, "No, not at all."

I couldn't tell what "not at all" was referring to, and while I was pondering whether my friend understood "yakubusoku" in its correct sense or the mistaken one, the conversation ended.

I regret that by using an unfamiliar word, I got sidetracked and the conversation didn't flow. I guess I was still "yakubusoku" (insufficiently capable) to use the word "yakubusoku."

Manabu Mizuno's book, "Sense Begins with Knowledge," truly resonated with me when I read it a while ago, particularly the idea that "sense is predicated on knowledge."

However, at the same time, I also felt that even with a wealth of knowledge, if the expression is poor, one's sense won't improve. So, while you can't start without knowledge, what's truly important, I think, is how you output that knowledge.

It's like, knowledge is crucial, but how you use it determines your sense.

In cooking, I believe plating is where sense is most challenged. Ingredients, cooking methods, tableware, plating techniques, menu planning, and table coordination are probably the keywords. To create a truly tasteful dish, encompassing all of these, I certainly feel it wouldn't be possible to start without knowledge.

But even if I had knowledge of all the world's cuisines and every single plate in front of me, if asked if I could produce an absolutely wonderful dish, I somehow feel it would be impossible.

Perhaps what's needed isn't so much knowledge of cooking, but rather "knowledge of how to present a wonderful dish." And to learn "knowledge of how to present a wonderful dish," you need knowledge to learn what makes something wonderful.

Hmm, it's a long road. I wish I could easily install sense into myself.

When I shop at the supermarket, of course I want to choose good items at a low price, so I try to be thoughtful about my purchases, but my memory isn't great, so I'm not very good at judging what's actually cheap.

I can tell when something is clearly cheap, but I can't remember small fluctuations. Especially with meat, whether a certain price per gram is cheap, or how it differs by cut, I rarely feel confident that it's "cheap."

However, there's one food item whose price I can confidently say whether it's cheap or not: Spam. I always remember the price of Spam.

I don't always buy it; in fact, I rarely do, but I always check the price of Spam when I go to the supermarket. And if I go to a new store and Spam is cheap, I tend to think that store offers good value.

A while ago, perhaps due to the weaker yen, the price of Spam almost doubled, and I was heartbroken, thinking I could never buy Spam again. But now, the price has settled down quite a bit.

Even though the price has settled, I still don't end up buying it, but whenever I go to the supermarket, I always check the price of Spam. I'm probably the only one in Japan who uses the "Spam Index"!

When I was little, I didn't really like nabe dishes.
No, I didn't like them at all.

Everything tasted like ponzu,
I couldn't find anything to eat with white rice,
And when it came to Yudofu,
I was at my wit's end because it only contained tofu and leafy greens.

Time has passed, and now, nabe is great.
It makes you feel the arrival of winter, warms you up, and is light to eat.
It's also easy to make, which is another plus.
Infuse it with the flavor of the broth,
And adding a little yuzu kosho makes the aroma wonderful.
While debating whether to have udon or zosui to finish,
Today, let's add an egg and make it egg zosui.

When did my preferences change, I wonder?
Perhaps it was after I started cooking it myself.

It's said that children perceive sourness and bitterness more strongly,
But nabe has neither sourness nor bitterness,
So I don't know why I came to like it, but
Nabe is the best!

This is a story from when I was in junior high school.
There was an extracurricular activity where we went to a BBQ site and each group made their favorite dish.

The dishes each group would make were decided in advance, and a paper with the list was distributed to everyone. As I was glancing through it, I noticed that among the dishes for my friend's group were "sandwiches" and "fried bread crusts."

The moment I saw that, I immediately realized, "Oh, that's what we ate at my house the other day."

I remembered my friend saying it was delicious back then, and I'd also heard our mothers talking.
"How do you make this sandwich?"
"Just sprinkle this powder on it."

The sandwich, and the leftover bread crusts fried in oil and sprinkled with sugar as a snack. They were dishes that often appeared at our house, and I liked them because they were delicious. But learning through the extracurricular activity that my friend genuinely enjoyed them made me incredibly happy.

And later, I would discover that the "magic powder" sprinkled on the sandwich was actually just "Crazy Salt," a regular seasoning sold in supermarkets. But even now, I still believe that if I sprinkle this on food, it will turn out okay—that it's truly a magic powder.

I hope that even now, for my friend, it's still a magic powder.