Sediment Diary 6: Recently

Rather than a spirit for cooking, my desire to stand in the kitchen rose so sharply that, in a fit of impatience, I started working at a Japanese restaurant. My interest in food has deepened to a degree incomparable to who I was just a few months ago. It is easy to trace the source: Tetsuya Miura's recent book, '26 Weeks to Becoming a Home Cook' (Asahi Shimbun Publications, 2023). When I first laid eyes on this book at the Yamatoya Bookstore in the basement of Sendai Mitsukoshi this past February, I headed to the register with an automatic gait, much like a jiangshi activated by spiritual power.

I am easily influenced. When I see someone proud of having acquired a habit I lack, I feel so frustrated I could stomp my feet. I suspect it is no coincidence that the pronunciation is the same as the English word 'conquer.' Starting with Miura's aforementioned book and 'Books That Make You Want to Eat' (Misuzu Shobo, 2019), a large group of 'conquerors'—including Yoko Arimoto, Harumi Kurihara, Ai Hosokawa, Rein Kudo, Sakiko Hirano, Masahiro Kasahara, and Shukuo Marumoto—have invaded my eating habits. While I am bewildered, I have no desire to drive them away. Rather, I am happy to see my own map of the terrain being repainted every day.

In the evening, while walking along the banks of the Hirose River, I saw a woman ahead with very distinct features who appeared to be from a Western country far from Japan. She was sitting on her bicycle saddle, stopped in place, and operating her smartphone in a forward-leaning posture. Then, an elderly man wearing a red Rakuten Eagles cap came from behind her. As they passed each other, he peered at the woman's face, broke into a broad smile, and slowly bowed. She responded by lifting the corners of her mouth.
'What country are you from?' he asked, and she replied, 'Sri Lanka.'
When the old man expressed surprise—'Oh, Sri Lanka!'—the woman took that as a cue to tell him something. Then, without him even inviting her with a 'Shall we go?', as if they had implicitly agreed, the two of them slowly walked off in the direction the old man was heading. The excitement of having witnessed a supernatural phenomenon stayed in my chest for a while.

Speaking of Sri Lanka, the seasoning I am currently obsessed with is 'Goraka Cream.' I found it in a shop that mainly sells Indian ingredients during my days of enthusiastically visiting shops that import foreign food. The young male clerk was happy that I was interested in the flavors of his native India, so he explained how to prepare the papadum I had bought at the same time more carefully than I had even asked, but when it came to the Goraka Cream from neighboring Sri Lanka, he seemed to know nothing and, conversely, stammered terribly. Standing next to him—for some reason, he was always at an ultra-close distance of about 50 centimeters, watching my every move with bright, shining eyes—we observed the small, Haagen-Dazs-like container for a while, and the conclusion we reached was, 'I don't know.' It was interesting, so I decided to buy it, but I was taken aback by the price, which rivaled that of Haagen-Dazs. Not knowing the price until you pay is both the thrill and the source of terror when visiting import shops.
Now, time to eat. Ignoring the suspicious gazes of my family, I open the lid. A pitch-black, fine paste jumps into my eyes. To compare it, it is the black of black garlic. As for the scent, it is also black garlic. I am vividly reminded of the black garlic that my grandmother, who runs a small thermotherapy clinic, grows here and there around the house. The container, sure enough, featured a fruit that looked like the garlic Wario eats. A scent so strong that even I, who once felt joy at the smell of shoes overworked by the boys' basketball team, was intimidated, poured endlessly from the container. How should I eat it?
According to my sister's research, Goraka is used to remove the fishy smell, so I paired it with grilled fish. It is indeed delicious. Even if the fishy smell doesn't disappear, when the fishy smell and the garlic-like smell are combined, it turns into an unexpected delicacy. While the flavor reminiscent of black garlic is the core, it also has a sweet acidity that makes it impossible to stop eating. It turns out it also goes well with ginger pork.
Will Goraka eventually become a part of fashion food?
Like Rei Kawakubo of Comme des Garçons, I want to go around spreading the 'Black Shock.'

I have vaguely come to understand that when I mention my preference for 'liking to walk' or the feeling that 'I haven't walked enough today,' it is taken as a shock by many people. They immediately throw words like 'pervert' or similar distancing terms at me. The question 'What do you think about while you're walking?' is extremely common, and there is a sense of keeping one at arm's length here, similar to how one might speak to a runner, a pianist, or a mountaineer.
However, it is interesting that they don't just push me away. They add, 'No, but I can understand that feeling,' or 'Actually, I've always wanted to be like that too,' or 'I've actually had a similar feeling before.' They incorporate themselves into the ranks of the perverts, and it's interesting because I can't tell if they are happy about it or if they would rather be excused.
Would it be considered black-hearted if I said I enjoy taking the initiative to push them away by saying, 'I want to walk 15 kilometers a day, I can walk 40 kilometers whenever I feel like it, I want to walk, and I have walked for days in a row'?
I am the type who gets bored when a mysterious person reveals an episode and the conversation converges on 'Oh, so you have a human side,' settling within the listener's expected range, so I would rather pursue being a pervert to the end.

The ship to Hachijojima was canceled due to low pressure, so I walked from Ikebukuro to Kamakura.
Even though I was staying at a hotel, I suddenly wanted to eat it, so I mobilized the electric kettle and amenities, made full use of the colander and bowl I bought at Don Quijote, and made Tomita's tsukemen for a total of 1,000 yen.
Even though I had just finished a grueling job, I walked 15 kilometers to a used bookstore in the suburbs of Sendai because I wanted a cookbook.
Like Ryuichi Sakamoto in his later years, I tried wearing white matte nail polish.
I truly live in a logical structure where I could spend my whole life happily.