Spring, Beaten by Butterbur

I have been beaten up by vegetables and cried.

It wasn't because of the irritation of onions.
And it wasn't because of a pumpkin that was basically a blunt weapon.

In the spring, at a small restaurant, I was made to cry by butterbur.

At 22, I was an insect mimicking the daily grind. While my classmates were emerging one after another as working adults and flying off magnificently, I had dropped out of job hunting and couldn't lay down a track for my life, remaining unable to fly forever. I was miserable, ashamed, and felt like I might disappear at any moment.

Even when I tried on various "dreams that seemed like they would make me a proper person," they were all too big, or too tight, and didn't feel right.

One day, while I was crawling on the ground, arming my miserable self with something like a dream even though it didn't suit me, my phone rang.

"There's a good place I know nearby, let's go."

I wasn't in the mood, but if it's a good restaurant, that's a different story. Even though I'm a mimicry insect, my gluttony is swelling up. I checked the contents of my wallet and biked for about 20 minutes to the designated small restaurant.

A restaurant in a place like this...? The shop was in a semi-basement area that left me puzzled. Even though it was called a small restaurant, the atmosphere was that of a diner.

Well, it might be more relaxing than a strangely stylish place. I'm wearing clothes that look like loungewear, after all. And my sweater has pilling on it.

I opened the heavy wooden door and took a step. As I stumbled, nearly tripping over the step at the entrance, my whole body was embraced by the warm air and the scent of sweet and salty soy sauce.

Looking around the shop, someone I knew raised their hand at the counter.

"Long time no see. The daily special here is good, you know."

As suggested, I ordered the daily special and sat down next to them. After exchanging a few greeting-like topics, such as "It's still cold, isn't it?" or "By the way, that guy got married recently," there was nothing left to talk about.

If my life were overflowing with dreams and hopes, if I had emerged properly, I'm sure I wouldn't run out of things to say at a time like this.

I really shouldn't have come.
In truth, from the moment I left the house, I had wanted to go home the whole time.

"Thanks for waiting. Here you go, the daily special."

As I was fidgeting and rolling up my wet towel to hide my awkwardness, the landlady placed a tray in front of me. There was glossy rice and grilled fish. On the several small side dishes, there were vegetables and simmered hijiki seaweed.

While nodding along to the conversation, I reached for the lotus root in the small bowl. At that moment, my acquaintance's voice vanished.

…?

What is this?


A plump, exquisite texture. After enjoying the joy of chewing, a sweetness quietly followed. It felt as if it were melting into my body, and the "emptiness" inside me was being quietly filled. ...Was lotus root a vegetable that could enter one's heart and body like this?

I moved my chopsticks to the simmered komatsuna greens.
The crunching sound of chewing echoed pleasantly in my brain, and it, too, blended into my body smoothly. It's delicious. Could this be a komatsuna of royal status? It's so refined that my sweater, covered in pilling, feels intimidated.


Seeing me devouring it with such focus, my friend grinned.

Before I knew it, I had started visiting that shop frequently. Everything I ate, whenever I ate it, was delicious. Every time I tasted it, there was a new emotion for that moment.

The way the rice grains stood, the sense for the ingredients in the soup, the presence of the vegetables. I would feel my heart tremble deeply at the deliciousness, convey my excitement to the landlady, and if I had the chance... when I asked for tips, the landlady would always answer with a smile.

"You can tell the moment to stop washing the rice by the change in sound."
"Don't be nervous with the rolled omelet; be bold and use high heat."
"Don't touch the hijiki too much; you have to protect its cuticle."

When I looked at her with sparkling eyes, the landlady laughed and said, "It's like I've gained a daughter." That made me so happy that I visited even more often.

When I open my heart, I tend to collapse some kind of dam toward the other person. A torrent of love and trust flows toward her without being held back. It seemed the landlady was the same.

One day, the landlady said casually.

"When you're free, why don't you help out here? Think of it as a cooking class where you get paid. You like cooking, don't you?"

I was bewildered by the sudden proposal. Because "working in food" had never been an option in my life's deck of cards. Was I really in a position to be taught cooking at a student-like hourly wage without working properly...?

"Think about it a bit more"—my reason probably whispered that. But in life, for better or worse, moments often arrive when reason loses all its power.

Driven by intuition, I drew "food" into my life.

I still remember the weather on that first day well.
It was a cold April morning, with clouds heavily covering the sky.

When I entered the shop, I met eyes with a giant bowl placed on the counter. The bowl was filled with water, and a large quantity of rough, rugged, yellowish-green sticks were floating limply.

Perhaps because they were in the middle of prep, the shop was dark. Only the counter was lit, and the bowl, basking in the light, shone quietly as if it were a spring dawn.

"Morning! I'm a bit tied up right now, so could you peel those butterbur stalks?"

The landlady gave instructions in a loud voice from the kitchen. Butterbur, is this the yellowish-green stuff? Peel...? How do I peel it...?

As I stood frozen in front of the butterbur I was meeting for the first time, the landlady followed up, "There are some that are already partially peeled, right? If you grab it and pull, you can do it all at once!"

When I looked, there were indeed some butterbur stalks that looked like straws with slits cut into the ends. The peeled parts were smooth, soft, and clear, and they looked strangely vivid. When I timidly pulled the fibers, the skin peeled off with a satisfying snap.

The raw butterbur, fully exposed, radiated a definite presence despite its pale color.

A palpitation that had been sleeping deep, deep inside my body suddenly began to beat loudly.

What is this resilience of the butterbur, swaying so softly that I'm anxious about touching it directly? What is this beauty that I can't look away from? What is the true nature of this vast energy?

From my eyes and fingertips, the heartbeat of the butterbur was transmitted, and my own heart throbbed in response. One, then another—my hands wouldn't stop peeling. As I watched the process of the transparent skin being revealed, I felt a slap on my cheek.

The armor I was supposed to be wearing tightly was being coaxed by the butterbur, trying to peel itself off. ...But that is absolutely not allowed. Please understand. If I take it off, there will be nothing left of me.

I wonder if there were about 40 stalks of butterbur in total.
When I finished the work in a trance, the bowl was filled with raw life. It felt like all of spring was right there.


Which came first: me saying "I'm finished" to the landlady, or the tears streaming down my cheeks?

I was crying uncontrollably.
I had been struck hard by the strength and beauty of the butterbur, and I was falling apart.

The overwhelming life force of 'just being' captured my heart and wouldn't let go. From the moment I touched the butterbur, my body has been throbbing with heat. My face hurts, and my heart, beating violently, feels like it might break. My whole body is bewildered by this unexpected emotion and shock.

I am afraid that my heart, shaken by the butterbur, will fly off at high speed to some unknown place. Don't go. Don't leave me behind. Don't take me with you. It's scary, scary, scary.


Even though I didn't want to take off my armor, my tears were disarming me against my will. Something that had been locked away deep inside, along with the emotion, pierced through the atmosphere.

During my two months of culinary training, I was struck by every vegetable I encountered. Every vegetable was free-spirited, authentic, powerful, selfish, and beautiful. I thought I was learning how to cook, but before I knew it, I had been trained by the vegetables.

Wanting to be struck even more, I eventually took a job centered on food. After more than 10 years of changing forms, I am still involved with food today.

Thinking back, perhaps my metamorphosis began the moment I saw that butterbur.

I didn't fly toward a dream I had envisioned in the distant future, but rather in the form of returning to myself. My wings are small, and I cannot fly very far, but compared to when I was crawling and only looking at the ground, I have come to enjoy so many more views.

What guided me was that butterbur from that day, and the vegetables. Lives that hold onto nothing but their own 'authenticity,' standing proud and bare.

Vegetables do not wear armor. They do not mimic others; they live, proud of their own 'authenticity.' That 'authenticity' can sometimes give a stranger a shock and emotion strong enough to change their life. People must be the same. Those who live honestly according to their 'authenticity' are beautiful.


Every time spring comes, I remember that day.

The shock of being struck by the butterbur. And the realization that beyond piercing the atmosphere, in the palms of our hands, and within ourselves, everyone possesses their own unique 'authenticity.'

That shop I frequented so often is, unfortunately, no longer there.
Perhaps that shop wasn't really a small restaurant or a cooking school, but a phantom dojo for people struggling with how to live... I find myself thinking about that vaguely.

▼ The person who wrote this note

▼Breakfast Essay (Series)