The Way to the Heart, is Through the Stomach

The year was 1984, with Karate Kid being all the rage, and Stevie Wonder’s ‘I Just Called to Say I Love You’ playing everywhere. My parents moved us from a quiet fishing village overlooking the Sea of Japan to sunny Orange County just a few days ago. We have been so busy unpacking our belongings that we really didn’t have much time to learn enough English to assimilate or properly process our homesickness. It was the equivalent of being thrown into the deeper end of the pool without much warm-up.

Like it or not, this was our new ‘home’ now…

The kitchen of our new house felt like it belonged to someone else. It was so spacious, compared to the one we left back in Tottori. The walls were recently painted mustard yellow, and the counters were so much higher than me. I shuddered as I imagined myself being the mouse that staggered into the wrong house, from one of Tom&Jerry episodes. It was a matter of time before I would be chased out.

Irrational? Of course. I was just an overthinking seven-year-old boy who had butterflies in my stomach, dreading my ‘doomsday’. Tomorrow would be my very first day of elementary school in America, and I hadn’t the faintest idea how to ‘prepare’ for any of it.

“Hey, don’t just sit there. Help me pick these Spinach. After that, shred the Kanikama.”

My mother cooked non-stop since we arrived in this new country. She was always in the kitchen, and that was where she would keep her hawk eyes on us heathens. Naturally, the rest of the family sat around in the kitchen as well. She wouldn’t even allow my father to idle. He was tasked with breaking eggs and adding just the right amount of dashi, under his wife’s supervision. Most of the time, we had no idea what we were being signed up to assist her in, but she made sure the entire family contributed to her daily culinary creations.

The next morning, I rose from bed. Way before the alarm. It was due to one part anxiety, new beginnings, and the other part jet lag: there was a sixteen-hour difference after all. With it also being a Monday, it was impossible not to take it all personally. Disgruntled, I began stomping down the stairs to get ready for school, but my mood shifted as something delicious hovered in the air. With every step I took, I was hit with the aromas of Dashi eggs seared in sesame oil, then the bouquet of freshly steamed rice came next. By the time I arrived in our kitchen, my mother was already cooking at full throttle. There were a dozen plates of Okazu on the kitchen table for us to nibble on for breakfast.

“Help yourself. Go fill your own bowl of rice. Have your Onechan get the Miso soup. It's too hot for you. Don’t want you getting burned on your first day of class.”

I looked up at the corner of the kitchen counter with the Rice cooker, which had the vantage point over me. Its two red eyes beamed menacingly, as it beeped that our rice was ready. I pushed the chair over to climb on it, so that I could get my rice.

“Be careful of the stea..”

I yelped, being caught off guard by the steam blast that emitted from opening the evil rice cooker. My sister giggled, pointing at me mockingly, as she gleefully indulged in my theater of pain. I promptly gave her the stink eye.

“Baka. How many mornings will you get startled by the rice steam, eh? Hurry up and get started with breakfast. I am still making Bento for you kids.”

While having our first meal of the new week, our father briefly joined us at the dining table right before leaving for work. He began quizzing both of us on simple English terminologies.

“What do you say when you have to go to the bathroom?”

As the resident court Jester and aspiring Mime, I felt obligated to get up from my oversized kitchen chair and demonstrate to the family my best body language of holding my crotch and skipping with urgency.

“Hmmm…That will do, I guess… Good luck today.”

After breakfast, my sister and I officially headed out for our first day of school. Before we got to the sidewalk, our mother rushed over to us and tossed each of us a paper lunch bag like a football. “That’s your Bento. Good luck at school.”

While we held hands and walked into the great unknown, I recited, over and over, the very few English phrases my father had taught me the past couple of days. Perhaps I should have taken his advice more seriously… As we crossed the intersection onto Los Alisos Boulevard, there was no turning back. We were officially in the thick of it. The crossing guard waved us over rapidly and urged us to pick up the pace before the light turned on the busy street.

It was a long sidewalk along the Boulevard, which led to our school. As we got closer to our destination, other kids from the neighborhood began to walk alongside us. My sister clenched her grip tighter. Every kid wore different shirts and even different colored shoes; they all had a distinct sense of individuality. I was most amazed by the vibrant ‘metal cubes’ they all carried, with the latest cartoon characters plastered on them. I eyeballed a bit too long, and one fellow student noticed.

“That's Storm Shadow and Snake Eyes! … You like G.I.JOE?” -referring to the characters on his lunchbox.

I had no idea what was said, so I nodded. Meanwhile, my sister’s grip grew even tighter. I looked up at her in confusion, and I was met with her death glare.

“Baka! Don’t draw attention. They might start bullying you! How can I protect…”

Mid-sentence of her pep talk, another boy waved and had a genuinely important question to ask me.

“Did you see Karate Kid? Do you know Karate? Do you know Mr. Miyagi??”

Again, I had no clue what was asked, so I promptly nodded to all of the above. Suddenly, all his entourage enthusiastically shared with me the favorite parts of the movie, and just like that- I became part of their crew. I waved over to my sister, but she zipped past me and everyone else. It took her a bit longer to adjust to this new environment.

The rest of my first day of school is a blur now, but the highlight of that day has got to be my first lunch recess. Coming from Japan, where schools provide the same meals for all students, it was a new experience to bring homemade lunches to school. I carried my mother’s Bento over to the empty corner of a bench in the lunchroom. Other kids were all staring, puzzled at this new guy’s suspicious ‘package’. With all eyes on me, I nervously unwrapped what my mother had packed for me…Then, I gasped! It was a colossal Futomaki roll, with many of the ingredients the entire family helped to prepare the night before.

Like sharks that get in a frenzy with a scent of blood, all of the kids around me sat closer and were mesmerized by all the vibrant components crammed into the Torpedo-like object. Even the upper-class men were intrigued by what I brought from home. They glanced at their PBJ sandwich, then looked at my Maki roll with great curiosity. They all waved for me to sit next to them.

“Um, can I try some?” A brave soul asked.

He also made a biting gesture so that I would better understand what he wanted. Good thing I was proficient in the language of Mimes. I grinned, opened my chopstick box, and took out my green Kamen Rider chopsticks. There were audible gasps, as if I just unveiled an ancient artifact at a museum. Like a surgeon, I carefully removed the first sliced Futomaki and gestured for the boy to take a bite. He cautiously nibbled the Nori and rice part first, then moved on to the Dashi Egg and the Crab sticks. All of the lunchroom waited in anticipation for his reaction…

“Yummmnn!!! This is Ammmaaazzziinng!!” He proclaimed with two thumbs up! There was an eruption of excitement, and now everyone wanted to get a taste of the new foreign kid’s lunch. One after another, I kept hearing - “Is this Sushi? Can I try it?!” As my lunch continued to get sampled by curious students, the remaining kids now wanted to make a deal with me for the remaining Futomakis.

“Um…I will trade you that round swirly thing for half of my sandwich! Or how about some of this Jello?!”

... They were all a fantastic trade, because I never had a PBJ, or a Ham sandwich, or Jello, or Vanilla pudding before. Boxed juice, too? I was able to barter for three different ones. I never had so many artificial tastes that stained my mouth in neon colors, and I loved all of it! By the end of lunch recess, we were all full and ecstatic, sampling something new from one another’s cultures. Along with more deep discussion about this Uncle Miyagi and Daniel-san that every kid seemed to adore, the whole school and I instantly turned into new friends.

When I got home that very first day of school, before my mother could even ask, “So, how was your first day?” I interjected with urgency.

“Okasan! What would be tomorrow’s Bento? Everyone… I mean EVERYONE…”

My mother puckered her lips, which switched to a frown. She inquired with concern, “Did… Did they make fun of you? Because of the Bento?”

“No! No, Mom, you don’t understand. The whole school tried your Futomaki. EVERYONE! And, and they absolutely LOVED it! All of them did! That’s why I was wondering if you could make my lunch even bigger tomorrow!”

She chuckled in relief and mentioned that Miso Katsu sando was on the menu for tomorrow’s Bento. Ohhhh! My favorite!!

In hindsight, it is so surreal to think how incredibly well that first day went. No doubt it was due to my mother’s thoughtful cooking that melted away any new-kid-in-school jitters. Instead, the Futomaki Bento blossomed into instant connections with my peers, ones that didn’t require word-for-word translation. For the rest of the things I didn’t know, I would nod convincingly, and everyone else seemed to like my educated guess. Fake it until you make it, right? Well… Relax. Not forever! I did that until ESL classes were officially implemented at our school, and I started to really understand what was being said. Turns out, I didn’t know Mr. Miyagi at all. Sorry, guys.

Witnessing the magic of what good food could do, I knew right then and there that THIS is what I want to do when I grow up! So, it comes as no surprise that I have gravitated towards the culinary field as my way of life. 41 years since that first lunch recess, I still work hard to instill that ‘Magic’ in the things I create in the kitchen. I believe that great food bridges all of our differences and brings us all together, one shared bite at a time.

It’s a beautiful, delicious love language that I am grateful to inherit from my Okasan.

I am, however, still working on being a world-class Mime someday!

There's still time...