—
新聞を
透かして見える
母の手
mother’s hands stretch
dough into thin, bright silence—
like paper, like sky
—
The best things I’ve eaten are not just flavors.
They’re stories folded into steam.
And the older I get, the more I believe this: taste is memory carried in salt and sugar and oil.
Sometimes it’s loud—a broth that punches through fatigue like a jazz trumpet.
Sometimes it’s quiet—like a crust you crack open with fingers, not words.
But always, the best food has a story.
—
Take my mother’s Apfelstrudel.
The way she rolled out the dough on the old wooden table, sleeves pulled to the elbows, a towel tucked into her waistband like an apron.
The dough had to be thin. “Thinner,” she’d say, “still thinner.”
Until you could lay a newspaper underneath and still read every headline.
It was absurd. It was magic.
The apples were always sour, sliced by hand.
A little cinnamon. No raisins.
It baked into something golden, humble, and precise.
Every bite was both comfort and craftsmanship.
And somehow, it always tasted best after being left out too long, eaten slightly cold, standing barefoot in the kitchen.
—
And then—ironically—burek.
From that tiny shop beneath the flat in Ljubljana.
You could smell it three blocks away.
It wasn’t fancy.
The cheese filling was molten, the pastry greasy enough to ghost its outline onto the brown paper bag within seconds.
You could almost read your palm through the bag if you held it against the light.
And yet—on a cold day after exams, or coming home from Tivoli park—nothing beat that first bite.
Flaky. Hot. Salty. Real.
It burned your mouth. You didn’t care.
It reminded you to be alive.
—
And then, the ramen.
Tonkotsu, in Fukuoka.
A counter seat.
Vinyl stool.
Ticket machine outside that confused me more than I’d admit.
The broth was white as bone. Dense.
It coated the lips and slowed the heartbeat.
Next to me, an old man slurped with perfect rhythm, nodding at the cook every few minutes like they were playing jazz together.
I asked for a kaedama—extra noodles—not because I was still hungry, but because I didn’t want it to end.
The chef wore a towel on his head and said nothing.
But when I stood to leave, he gave the faintest nod.
As if to say: Good choice.
—
Another time.
A train station in northern Italy.
I had two hours before the next train.
I followed the smell, like some cartoon character floating mid-air.
It was pizza. But not pizza.
More like focaccia, with anchovy and roasted tomato melted into the crust.
Eaten standing up, leaning against a brick wall.
The dough still warm from the oven.
The cheese slightly burned in the corners.
One of those meals that rewires your expectations.
I never knew salt could feel tender.
—
In Regensburg, there was a summer where everything felt golden.
Evenings lasted forever, and I’d walk the cobbled streets along the Danube like I belonged there.
There was this café, half-hidden in the Altstadt.
An old man made käsespätzle by hand.
I watched him once through the kitchen pass—he pressed the dough through a metal grate like it owed him something.
The onions were dark, nearly bitter.
The cheese was sharp, Alpine, unforgiving.
Served in a cast iron pan, still bubbling.
It was the first time I understood how food could be unapologetic.
Not soft. Not crowd-pleasing. Just honest.
—
And once, during Golden Week in Japan, I missed my train.
I was somewhere between Kumamoto and the middle of nowhere.
The sun had just set, and there was only one light still on—a small izakaya tucked behind a shuttered post office.
The door creaked.
No menu.
A man behind the counter said, simply: “Nimono.”
Stewed vegetables.
That’s all.
Daikon, carrot, a piece of tofu, simmered in dashi.
That’s it.
It made me want to cry.
I don’t know why.
Maybe because it tasted like patience.
Like someone had watched the pot all day.
And decided this is enough.
—
The truth is: I’ve had better meals.
More technical ones. Fancier ones.
But they didn’t stay.
These did.
Not because of Michelin stars.
But because of where I was, who I was, what I needed.
The taste of missing home.
The joy of being lost.
The smell of someone else’s stove.
The laughter over a cheap table.
The moment your hunger meets something that understands it.
—
Wabi-sabi Lesson
Food doesn’t need perfection to be unforgettable.
A meal is not just sustenance.
It’s a witness.
To your mood. Your time. Your becoming.
A thin dough.
A greasy bag.
A broth stirred a thousand times.
These are not just things you eat.
They are moments that feed you.
And when remembered, they still do.
—
So, what’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten?
That’s like asking: When did you feel most alive?
And the answer will never be just one.
It’s a chorus.
Of hunger.
Of laughter.
Of cold feet and warm bowls.
Of broken chopsticks and perfect timing.
But if I had to pick?
Probably that Apfelstrudel.
With the newspaper underneath.
And my mother’s hands still dusted in flour.
Telling me,
Eat before it cools.
life 