日報

I feel like I've valued the word "balance" since a long time ago.

When I try to remember when I started paying attention to it, the oldest memory I have is a friend saying at Saizeriya when we were in high school, "The balance between thoughts and actions is important, isn't it?"

I can't remember the context in which he said it, and I'm sure my friend probably said it without any deep meaning, but I guess it resonated with me, in the prime of my youth.

Even now that youth is a distant past, I still value the word "balance," and it serves as a word of caution when my emotions or actions are going too far, or about to go too far.

Even when an opportunity arises and it's time to move forward all at once, rather than focusing all my energy in that direction, it's more like taking a strong step with one foot as a pivot, and reaching out as far as possible with the other, like a pivot in basketball. Moving forward with balance feels just right.

When I see people moving forward with all their heart and soul, without worrying about balance, I think it's cool and I sometimes envy them, but I can't quite do that.

Do I tap on a stone bridge before crossing, or do I dash across, thinking it won't break if I go fast? I'm the type who gently steps forward with one foot to check if it's safe before taking another step.

Wandering back and forth between the produce section and the meat section, contemplating whether to buy pork belly or loin, or if even thinly sliced meat would do, and realizing that a particular cut of meat requires cabbage – those moments are quite enjoyable.

I don't think of myself as someone who frets much, but at the supermarket, I ponder and ponder and ponder. It's fun to see a slightly different side of myself emerge.

At familiar supermarkets, I tend to fall into a routine route and buy the same things. That can get a bit boring, so sometimes I try a different route, expecting to discover new things. But then I just get disoriented and end up returning to my usual route to shop again.

Whoever decided to place gyoza and wonton wrappers above the ground meat section is a genius. I'll be shopping without a specific meal in mind, and when I see the ground meat, I'll think, "Oh, maybe I'll make gyoza." The moment I look up, the wrappers are right there.

I'm a bit impatient, so when the cashier is scanning barcodes and moving items from my shopping basket to the "paid" basket, I want to start putting them into my reusable bag right then and there. Sometimes I can do it, and sometimes the atmosphere doesn't allow for it. When I can, it feels like a good day; when I can't, it's a bit disappointing – that's what I silently think every time.

Shopping is just as much fun as cooking.

There's a Chinese soba noodle shop I frequent.
It's quite famous, so much so that people who trained there have opened their own famous shops in various places.

I always order the Chinese soba. It's truly delicious.
The cleanliness of the shop, the politeness of the staff, and their attentiveness are all wonderful, and I'm always impressed by how well-run and thoughtful delicious restaurants are.

Yesterday, instead of my usual Chinese soba, I decided to try the tsukemen on a whim.
When I go to a place I always visit, I usually go expecting that specific taste, so it's hard to order something different, but I guess I was feeling capricious.

My conclusion after having the tsukemen:
I still think my usual Chinese soba is better.

The tsukemen was perfectly good, but it didn't quite reach the level of "truly delicious" that I feel when I have the Chinese soba, with its light yet deep flavor. So, my thought was, "Ah, I really do love Chinese soba."

This could be either:
[The Chinese soba truly is more delicious]
[I'm imagining the taste of Chinese soba, so I'm not ready to accept a different taste]
It must be one of the two, and I suspect it's the latter.

Looking around the shop, the order ratio for Chinese soba to tsukemen seemed to be about 3:7, with both being ordered, so neither should be inherently superior.
However, my personal truth is that I found the Chinese soba more delicious.

This conservative feeling, where I can't honestly judge something new that comes after, happens often in both my private and professional life, so I really want to try to think about things without preconceived notions.

Despite thinking all this, the next time I go to this shop, I'll be ordering the Chinese soba!

I went shopping at Isetan Shinjuku.
The food floor on the basement level, the so-called "Depachika."
Is it still okay to call it "Depachika"?
I don't go there very often, so I'm not sure what the latest term is.

Anyway, getting back on track.

The food floor at Isetan Shinjuku was really enjoyable.
I wonder what it is about that place that makes you want to buy things.
The lineup, the beautiful displays,
the presentation is, as expected, top-notch.
Of course, the prices are also top-notch.

The way the prepared foods and other items were displayed on the counters, and the way the light hit them,
seemed like the optimal solution, the result of thoroughly considering how to "make things look wonderful."

I imagine that only wonderful shops are set up there,
so it was a space that made me admire how they must have considered every element from the customer's perspective, to get customers to buy,
and then brought those ideas to fruition.

I felt that the items one should consider and act upon when cooking,
in order to make the food taste delicious for those who eat it,
are fundamentally the same as those in a Depachika,
so I felt the need to learn from it.

While gazing intently with a desire to learn,
faced with heart-fluttering products,
I felt excited and bought a lot of things,
and skipped happily all the way home.

When it comes to dishes like pasta or fried rice, which involve stir-frying in a pan, I find it easy to make up to two servings, but suddenly difficult when trying to make three.

In reality, it's less about the number of servings and more about the quantity that fits in the pan. Given the size of home pans and the heat of household stoves, two servings seems to be just the right amount to cook at once.

Fried rice is a prime example. When I make more than two cups of rice at once, it often turns out less tasty than usual. With larger quantities, issues like how easy it is to flip the ingredients, how evenly they cook, and adjusting the seasoning become factors that I usually don't have to consider. I think failures occur because I don't account for these new situations and just cook as I normally would.

This made me think it's very similar to an organization. Things that were fine with a small number of people become problematic as the numbers grow and the group becomes more organized. The task of management arises, and neglecting it can impact the entire operation.

Hmm. Does everything require adjustment when the quantity increases?

Having said that, since I'm not good at working in an organized manner, when I have to make four servings of fried rice, I'm the type who solves it by making two servings twice! I realized it's important to know the amount you can confidently and deliciously prepare.

Here's a trivial story from my childhood.
When I was a kid, I didn't acknowledge any rice other than plain white rice.
No matter if it was takikomi gohan (mixed rice), mame gohan (bean rice), or corn rice,
I remember complaining to my mom whenever mixed rice was served.

For my favorite meat dishes like fried chicken or tonkatsu, plain white rice was indispensable.
When it came to yakiniku, it's no exaggeration to say I ate the meat just to have an excuse to eat white rice.

Only when dishes that (to me) didn't pair well with white rice, like oden or stew, were served,
did I (reluctantly) tolerate mixed rice.

Once, fried chicken and takikomi gohan were served together.
On that occasion, even as a child, I passionately argued to my mom about how essential white rice was for fried chicken.
After that, mixed rice was never served on fried chicken days.

As I grew up,
I came to appreciate the deliciousness of mixed rice,
and my dependence on white rice lessened.
Now, I'm perfectly fine eating yakiniku without plain white rice.

However, even now,
on fried chicken days, it absolutely has to be white rice.