日報

When I was little, I was nicknamed "Mype."
It was short for "my pace."
Come to think of it, I feel like I've often been told I march to the beat of my own drum since way back then.

In junior high, I did kendo club.
Everyone would do practice swings together, but I felt like if I swung in unison with everyone else, I'd just be swinging with force and not properly, so I'd swing my bamboo sword at my own pace.
That might have been my "my pace" tendency.

Come to think of it, the "cooperativeness" box on my report card never had a circle.
I used to wonder why, but now I realize, "Of course it wouldn't be circled, since I wasn't coordinating with others."

If I'm told I march to the beat of my own drum, does that mean everyone else is "your pace"?

Eating, walking, talking, thinking, living.

Amidst everyone having different speeds, people who can adjust to others are "your pace."
People who proceed at their own speed are "my pace."
I see.
Indeed, I am "my pace."

"Live and let live."
Because I think that way, even before considering whether to fall in line or not, there's a part of me that thinks, "Isn't it fine to go at a speed that suits each person?"

I intend to respect the other person's speed, but I don't really intend to change my own speed.

Hmm.
I also feel like this is something I should fix.

I love the time I spend prototyping.

I gaze at the ingredients in the fridge,
vaguely considering what I can make,
then just start moving my hands.

Sometimes it works out,
sometimes it doesn't,
but since it's a prototype, anything goes.

When I was making sautéed mushrooms,
I felt like something was missing at the end,
and suddenly remembered the granola I had stored away.

When I sprinkled it on top,
the appearance was surprisingly good.
The taste was strange,
but it was interesting, with a new kind of vibe.

These kinds of ideas
rarely come to me during a photoshoot.

When I'm cooking while thinking about
how it will look and how it will be perceived,
ideas for the dish itself
tend to dry up.

Ideas for dishes usually come to me
during prototyping.

When I'm vaguely wondering
if I can do something interesting,
I suddenly come up with new combinations
or make unexpected discoveries.

That's why I love the time I spend prototyping.

Why is it that I only remember what I've forgotten after I've left the house? The moment I step out the door, I realize:

I forgot my wallet.
I forgot my keys.
I forgot my phone.

I've forgotten everything. If only I'd remembered 10 seconds earlier, I could have saved myself the trouble of going back.

I feel like I've thought that well over a hundred times.

There's a game I often play. You pack your spaceship with supplies to live in space, then launch from Earth.

The moment I hit the ignition switch for the spaceship, I almost always think, "Oh, I forgot water. I forgot the battery."

You only remember what you've forgotten the moment you move on to the next step. Is it impossible to look back until you cross some kind of line?

I figured someone must be researching this, so I asked an AI, and sure enough, they are. There are roughly three main reasons:

・Context-dependent memory
　Different memories are triggered when your surroundings change.

・Doorway effect
　Passing through a doorway resets your brain's memory.

・DMN activation
　When you start moving and relax, different thoughts begin to emerge.

I see. I understand the reasoning. But what I really want to know is how to stop forgetting things. So I asked for solutions, and it said:

"From a neuroscience perspective, putting a checklist by the front door is the most logical solution."

There you have it.

When I was a student, I played basketball.
Some days my shots went in, and some days they didn't at all.

On the days they went in, I tried to figure out what form I was using and where I was looking when I shot.
The moment I started paying attention to which parts of my body I was using, my shots stopped going in.

It became impossible to even make a judgment.
Something like that happened.

Now, I feel like something similar is happening when I try to cook and turn it into a recipe.

When I cook dishes that I usually make by feel, but I try to make them while thinking about the proportions of seasonings,
they taste a little different.

I wonder why. Did I overcook it while I was thinking?
Does precisely measuring the quantities subtly change the balance?
Or is it the same taste, and I'm just overthinking it?

I don't know the reason, but sometimes the moment I become conscious of something I could do unconsciously, I can no longer do it.

Speaking of which,
that feeling when I could normally speak fluently, but then suddenly couldn't speak well the moment I started to consciously think about it.
Was that the same thing?

... And just like that, a fading memory from over a quarter-century ago suddenly came back to me.

The other day, I went to an event for my previous company.
It was fun, like a class reunion, chatting and laughing with former colleagues and people I hadn't seen in a while.

Amidst that, in a conversation with someone I hadn't seen in several years,
I asked, "By the way, where did you used to live?"
And the response was a single word.

"Kikuna."

I flinched for a moment,
and thought, "Oh, sorry." And two seconds later,
"Oh, Kikuna, as in the place."

Since I was born in Saitama,
neither Kanagawa nor the Tokyu Toyoko Line are very familiar to me,
so I thought it was good that I recognized it was Kikuna.

Because the word "Kikuna"
sounded so strong and abrupt,
I wondered if it had some other meaning, but I eventually figured out it was Kikuna.
If they had said "Kikuna yo~" (Don't ask!),
I probably would have taken it as "Don't ask!"
and just ignored it.

I don't know about other languages, but
Japanese has many homophones,
so misunderstandings can easily happen in conversation alone.

Words like "kaeru" (to return, frog),
"au" (to meet, to fit),
"kiku" (to listen, to ask, chrysanthemum).

Perhaps,
even that slightly annoyed remark at the time,
or that word that bothered me at work,

might have just been a misunderstanding if written down.
That might happen surprisingly often.

I've heard it said that Japanese people tend to prefer things to be either extremely hot or extremely cold.

Beer is ice-cold.
Ramen is piping hot.
Coffee, juice, and pasta, too, seem to be at one extreme or the other, with very little in between.

Even the expression "nurui" (lukewarm) has a slightly negative connotation, implying that something that should have been hot has become lukewarm.

While there are various reasons, such as hot food bringing out the aroma or cold food being more refreshing, I feel there's an element of "omotenashi" (Japanese hospitality) involved.

When I serve food myself, I try to serve it as hot as possible.

Of course, freshly made food tastes better, but I also feel that making it piping hot is a way to express the sentiment, "I prepared this for you in its best possible state."

You cook diligently, thinking of the other person. Often, the "best condition" at that moment is freshly made.

So, cold things are ice-cold, and warm things are piping hot.

Perhaps this is why it's naturally accepted as being delicious.

I thought this as I, someone who loves ice-cold beer and piping hot ramen, curry, and hot pots, pondered this.