W3 Blog

Through my life, personal teachers of the culinary arts have been few and far between. Such rarity has made me appreciate my lessons that much more. The meals I have learned to cook differ greatly. My experiences range from all-American grills to concise Japanese meals.

      One of the most memorable teachers I have ever had lies many years in the past. During my junior year of high school, I exchanged to Japan. Throughout the exchange, there was times where all the current exchange students from my city would meet up and have events together. Considering the many diverse backgrounds that we all brought to the table, it was easy to see why everyone looked forward to these meetings.

     One chilly fall day, I biked through my town to the building where everyone was going to meet. I remember being very excited. My body shivered from both the bitter cold and eager anticipation. Once I arrived, the standard procedures began.

     Everyone gave their speeches. These usually lasted no more than 5 minutes per person. All exchangers stifled their yawns and feigned attention. You could only hear the same speech in broken Japanese so many times.

     After the speeches were done, the head Rotarians split us into groups. We all talked feverishly about what we would be doing next. Soon, we stared at the ground in wonder. They had all unfolded bright blue cloth, revealing a line of small hollow sticks with string laced through each end.

     It seemed like the lining you put at the bottom of your bathtub to keep you from slipping. The head Rotarian stood up and spoke in some unintelligible Japanese. At some point in the flurry of words, I picked up "sushi." Our fevered talking started once more.

     In a few moments, my host father meandered over to show us the process. He held up the mat of sticks and rolled it into a tube slowly. His lack of English skills forced us into watching a series of exaggerated charades.

     A few moments later, bowels were distributed to each group. Each one contained a different ingredient. Bowls of seaweed, fish meat, vegetables, and rice were splayed about. First, my host father laid a flat sheet of seaweed on the stringed sticks. He then grabbed a hunk of rice and smoothed it across the seaweed thickly. Finally delicately inserted bits of fish into the rice.

     After these steps, he stared at me with a wide smile. He delicately lifted the stringed sticks and rolled it into a tube once more. The rice and fish were all compacted into the center and the seaweed connected to itself in one glorious motion. After that, he grabbed a knife from another table.

     He effortlessly sliced the tube of sushi into individual slices. I remember the wide eyes every exchanger at my table bore. I never thought that sushi could be so easy to make.

     After that, he distributed a stick-mat to every one of us. That said mat still sits in my parents kitchen to this day. The wordless instructions have never left me. And on chilly fall days, his silent guidance helps me make a delicious meal for my family. My host father has unintentionally instilled something in me that time will never erase.