A Cherished Dish: Are We Eating the Food, or Are We Eating the Memories? | Yasuo Takagi (Dean of the Graduate School of Health Management)

2012.04.19

At my age, I sometimes find myself thinking about what I would eat for my last supper. I certainly don't want to end my life in a hospital bed, hooked up to an IV drip and staring at the ceiling. I'm sure everyone wants to say goodbye to this world after eating something delicious one last time.

I once saw a TV show where several celebrities were interviewed and asked, "What would be your last supper?" To share one example, the professional wrestler Giant Baba surprisingly chose "daifuku mochi" (a rice cake stuffed with sweet bean paste). His reason was, "Because on New Year's Day, I could eat as much ankoromochi (rice cakes covered in sweet bean paste) as I wanted without having to hold back for anyone." He was born in Niigata Prefecture, and thinking back to his childhood, I can imagine that providing enough food to support his large frame was no easy task, and he likely had to eat with restraint.

That reminds me, my mother also told me about a song from her childhood about New Year's: "New Year's is a wonderful time~. We eat chichi (salted salmon) like wood chips, and we eat mama (rice) like snow~." It seems that for my mother, who grew up in a poor farming village, New Year's was also a special day when she could eat fish and rice.

Now, when I consider my own last supper, it would have to be the local dish "shimotsukare" (which we called "shimotsukari" in my hometown). This dish is made every year on the first "Day of the Horse" in February by grating the head of a salted salmon, leftover soybeans from the Setsubun festival, daikon radish, carrots, and other scraps with a coarse grater and simmering them with sake lees. Due to its unique taste and appearance, many people would probably wonder, "Is this even a dish?"

However, there is a saying that "eating shimotsukare at seven different houses will keep you from getting sick," and I fondly remember the elderly women from the neighborhood coming to our house to eat our shimotsukari around this time of year. Unsurprisingly, this custom has faded, and I hear that in recent years, ready-made versions are sold at local supermarkets.

It's originally a home-cooked meal, and in that sense, each family has its own unique recipe. When I would go home around this time, I would always press my mother, asking, "Is there any shimotsukari left?" During a recent trip home, I asked my sister-in-law why no seasonings are used, and she told me, "The salmon head is so heavily salted that the saltiness remains even after washing it with water, so none are needed." To transport salmon to the mountains of the northern Kanto region, it must have been heavily salted. Perhaps that is why this local dish with its unique cooking method was born.

Unfortunately (or perhaps naturally), the "shimotsukari" my sister-in-law made didn't taste like my mother's, but just like Giant Baba who substituted ankoromochi with daifuku mochi for his New Year's treat, I happily and deliciously ate it, even asking for seconds. Thinking about it this way, I realize that a cherished dish is not about the food itself, but about eating the memories associated with it.

Speaking of which, when I dine with Europeans, the conversation can go on endlessly, which can be tiresome. Perhaps even delicious French cuisine is merely a tool for creating memories with the people you meet. Rather, cooking began with mothers putting their hearts into making food for their children, so that it would become a memory.

Is it unfortunate or fortunate that there is no cherished dish that surpasses the taste of one's mother's cooking? The answer, I suppose, will be revealed at the last supper.

(Date of publication: 2012/04/19)