The Day My Child Said They 'Hate Curry' | A Story About Housework Perspectives

Project MOON No. X-5

When my child said they "hated curry," I doubted the world for a brief moment.
No way, I thought.
Does a child who hates curry actually exist in this world?

Evening in the kitchen.
The ventilation fan hummed low and deep,
and a large pot on the stove was bubbling away.
Beyond the steam, the onions were slowly melting.
I stopped moving for a second, wooden spatula still in hand.
For me, curry had always been the "food that would never betray me" since I was a child.

Back when I was an elementary school student who was a picky eater.
Even though I was skilled at pushing peas and carrots to the corner of my school lunch tray,
curry days were different.
That unique aroma that spread the moment the silver food container was opened.
The feeling of the classroom air becoming a little lighter.
Brown roux poured over white rice.
Even vegetables I disliked could be eaten normally when they were in curry.
I used to think that the phrase "curry flavor"
had the power to make the world a little more harmonious.

Even when I was in junior high and seriously suspected the school lunch center of lowering the quality of the meals, I always finished my curry on curry days without issue and even went back for seconds.

When I was in high school and didn't really like the bento my mother made,
I would secretly decline them so as not to cause any friction.
There was a small curry shop in a narrow alley behind the high school.
A menu where you could choose the spice level in detail.
A stylish wooden counter.
A quiet but friendly shop owner.
On days when I had extra money in my wallet, I usually went there.
When faced with a steaming bowl of katsu curry,
worries about club activities, career paths, and relationships would just fade away.

When I was a college student obsessed with ramen,
I discovered the existence of curry ramen and curry udon and was genuinely moved.
"So, you can turn anything into curry."

Then I became a working adult,
worked in Italian restaurants and cafeterias,
and when I started to gain a little confidence in my cooking,
I encountered "high-minded curry" known as soup curry.
Deep-fried eggplant.
Seared bell peppers.
Bone-in chicken.
The scent of spices.
With a small stainless steel pot in one hand,
I was enjoying the freedom of adulthood.
Curry was no longer just a dish; it was life itself.

And yet, this curry, which I could call my life partner,
is what happened.
My children said it without mercy.

"We had curry for school lunch today, you know."
"I could eat curry every day."
"I like curry too!"
"I want snacks!"

Who are these people?
Dinner isn't even finished yet,
but everyone is already gathered at the dining table.

A glass of water.
School handouts.
A hat left where it was taken off.
Origami.
Scattered toy cars.
The feeling of daily life is piling up on the table.
Like hungry baby birds,
they keep chirping away.

I stir the pot in the kitchen in silence.

The sweet smell of onions.
The fat from the sautéed ground meat.
The rich aroma of the melting roux.

And,
if I were to try to make curry while ignoring the voices of the baby birds.

"Ugh! Curry again!?"
"I could eat it every day!"
"Me too!"
"I want snacks!"

Damn it. Did they figure it out?
Curry is a dish with too much presence.

The aroma.
The color.
The oil sticking to the pot.
The atmosphere that fills the whole room saying "It's curry today."
It's impossible to hide that.

……I really want to do it.
I want to keep it hidden until the very end,
and serve it saying, "Ta-da! It's curry again today. I won't hear any objections."
But it's impossible.
Curry has terrible stealth capabilities.
And in the end, it was curry that night too.

While pouring the roux onto white plates,
I pretend not to see the children's faces.

"Ugh..."
"Yay!"
"I'm eating it too!"
"Snaaaacks!"

On the children's faces,
there is a beautiful gradient of expressions.
What are these people?

If it's something they like, they finish eating in five minutes.
On days with something they dislike,
they move their spoons at a speed like slow motion on TV.
They crush each grain of rice one by one, looking off into the distance.
If I look away for a second, they disappear from the table, clutching their toys.
Is this a zoo?

The dining room is filled with
the smell of curry and the voices of children.
Someone is laughing,
someone is spilling water, and someone is being scolded.
Curry sauce is flying onto the table,
and grains of rice are rolling under the chairs.
We
scold the children who don't finish their meals on time,
sometimes encourage them,
and somehow manage to finish this war-like dinner.

Dishes pile up in the sink,
and dried-up rice grains remain on the table.
In the finally quiet dining room,
I stare at the curry left at the bottom of the pot.
Under the yellow light, the sauce slowly cools down.
Only the ventilation fan is still working.
And then I think.

(...Well, how should I reuse this tomorrow?)

Curry reuse generally falls into a few categories.

Curry ramen.
Curry udon.
Curry doria.
Curry pilaf.
Curry bread.
Curry pizza.
Curry pasta.
Soup curry.
Curry-flavored pot-au-feu.
Curry sauce to accompany main or side dishes.

In other words, in our house, curry is
not a dish that ends in one night.
The second day.
The third day.
Depending on the situation, up to the fourth day,
it quietly infiltrates our home while changing its form.

The kitchen in the middle of the night.
The low hum of the ventilation fan.
Water bottles piled in the sink.
On the refrigerator, school schedules and
mysterious space drawings made by the children are posted.

Our selfish, cute little customers
change their evaluation criteria based on their mood that day.
They suddenly dislike today what they were happy to eat yesterday.
But conversely,
they might suddenly eat what they disliked until yesterday.
Child-rearing is more volatile than the stock market.

I open the pot lid and
slowly break up the curry that has started to solidify with a wooden spatula.
Under the yellow light, the oil on the surface shines slickly.
My hope is
to naturally keep it as curry rice until the next morning.
If I get permission from the customers,
I will use it for tomorrow's dinner as curry udon or curry ramen, dissolved into a Japanese-style dashi soup.

◇

And the next morning.
The 'consecutive curry rice proposal' to the customers
was easily rejected.
So,
breakfast is changed to a different menu.
I
spread the leftover curry onto bread.
I put cheese on top,
and throw the bread into the toaster.

A baby bird drinking milk with half-closed eyes.
A baby bird standing on its knees on the chair,
blankly watching TV.
A baby bird with hair exploded from bedhead,
still with one foot in a dream.
And,
a baby bird crying as if auditioning for a vocal volume contest from the morning.

Next to them, I
put cheese and whatever vegetables I have on the bread,
reconstructing it as curry pizza toast.

By the time the cheese bubbles and expands in the toaster,
and the toasted aroma spreads through the room,
the children
have forgotten their bad mood from just a moment ago.

And at night,
curry ramen.
If possible, I want to finish it here.
The moment I empty the pot,
I'm sure I'll be doing a small victory pose.

◇

Since my children were born, I have increasingly cut corners in cooking.

I open the freezer.
Karaage.
Gyoza.
Udon.
Broccoli.
Anpanman potatoes.
Supermarket deli items.
An elite squad covered in frost is packed tightly in a row.

On exhausted weekday nights,
they help me silently.
I used to feel some guilt about this elite squad, but now I have no hesitation at all.
There are even days when the 'ding' sound of the microwave
sounds like a rescue signal.
I summon and tame them all.

Even among them,
the reason I want to rely on Mr. Curry as my ace is
because I can wrap a large amount of vegetables,
regardless of likes or dislikes, in a strong flavor,
and just throw them into the pot.

I
chop the onions.
Finely dice the carrots.
Shred the mushrooms.
Mince the green peppers.
On the cutting board,
vegetable fragments scatter more and more.

Only the sound of the knife
keeps a steady rhythm in the night kitchen.
If the children find out, it might be over...
No, maybe not.
That's why I make them small.
It's practically craft work now.

I've heard that boiled vegetables have less nutritional value than raw ones.
Even so, I take vegetables, mushrooms,
and every possible ingredient, chop them finely,
boil them, stew them, and finally wrap them in the strong, distinct flavor of 'curry'.

The pot simmering away.
Rising steam.
Bangs sticking to my forehead.
The used knife placed in the sink.
The wooden spatula starting to be dyed curry-colored.
And, having them finish it all.

I watch the children carry their empty plates to the sink.
And also the profile of the child who left their plate on the table again.
With sauce still around their mouth,

"Can I have seconds?"

When they ask that. Just that alone,

"Well, I managed to get through today somehow"

is something I can think. It feels almost like taking the vegetables the children usually won't eat, putting them on the giant vehicle that is curry, and sending them into their stomachs by force.

Today, the main dish is curry again. However, it's not curry rice today. I take the curry left at the bottom of the pot from last night and slowly thin it out with Japanese-style dashi. Every time I stir it with a wooden spatula, the solidified roux melts away smoothly. Into that, I add ramen noodles boiled a little soft. Steam rises up. The scent of dashi mixes with the smell of the curry. From that moment on, the atmosphere of "Curry again...?" changes into anticipation for a different dish.

In fact, even the little fledgling who started saying they don't like curry eats it without issue when it becomes a noodle dish like ramen, udon, or pasta.

Because they say, "I like this," calmly while slurping udon over the counter. That's right. Because you liked it until last month, didn't you? Curry.

Now then, I carry the curry ramen to the table.

"Wow! Curry ramen! Yay!!" Before even sitting in their chair, one fledgling bangs on the table. "I want to eat it fast!" Another one runs to their seat. "I like curry ramen too!" Even the little bird who was in the "anti-curry party" until just a moment ago has completely defected to this side. "I want to eat snacks..." Only the youngest is free-spirited today as well. On the TV, their favorite YouTube video is playing, and in the kitchen, the ventilation fan is humming low.

I drizzle homemade dressing over the side salad. Finally, I crush a few potato chips and sprinkle them on top. They are a substitute for croutons. Recently, I have been doing this kind of sloppy improvisation quite boldly. And today, once again, I line up dinner in front of the hungry little birds.

"Looks delicious! Itadakimasu!" "Yay! I'm hungry!" "Are there seconds?" "Oh! There are potato chips in it!"

The dining table, which was noisy until just a moment ago, becomes quiet for an instant. Everyone is eating properly. ...No, the youngest is only putting what they like into their mouth again today. Well, even just that is enough for today. I have to clear the dishes quickly and move on to the next phase of housework.

Curry, which has been my best friend since childhood, remains a powerful partner even now. It is what you might call an "ally in housework." And also, for the future when the children start to "drift away from curry" little by little, I must learn the new charms and new "perspectives" of this giant force while I still can. Noisy, selfish, but still coming home hungry every single day, my little guests. While half-ignoring their voices, I will probably be making curry again in three days.

The End

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