In a French restaurant in Tokyo’s upscale Ginza district, Keigo lived every day on edge. A Michelin-starred chef with a six-month reservation waitlist—his uncompromising dedication to cuisine and service was both his pride and his way of life.
Then one day, a phone call came. His mother had collapsed and been hospitalized.
It had been five years since Keigo last returned to his hometown in Niigata. Lying in a hospital bed, his mother looked smaller than he remembered, her face lined with age. His reunion with his father was awkward, marked by silence. On the dinner table at home sat untouched simmered vegetables and cold miso soup.
“Your mom used to make meals like this every single day…”
His father murmured the words, and they struck something deep inside Keigo.
The next morning, Keigo found himself in the kitchen. On impulse, he opened a cupboard and discovered an old notebook. On the cover, in round handwriting, it read: “Mom’s Recipes.”
It was his mother’s handwritten recipe journal.
“Kinpira burdock: slice the burdock thin, cut the carrots diagonally. Stir-fry well with a sweet and salty sauce.”
“Hamburger steak: cook onions until caramelized. Don’t rush. Knead with care.”
Each recipe came with a warm, personal note—small, loving reminders.
From that day on, Keigo began cooking for his family. Not with professional flair, but by following his mother’s recipes. In the familiar kitchen, he recreated the familiar flavors. The seasoning was off on the first day, but his father smiled and said, “Tastes great.”
“So this is what it means to cook for someone…”
In Tokyo, he had cooked to impress. But now, seeing his family quietly enjoying bowls of miso soup, he felt, for the first time, that he wanted to bring joy.
A few days later, after being discharged, his mother peeked into the kitchen.
“The taste hasn’t changed one bit. I’m surprised.”
“I used your recipe book.”
“Oh, that. I used to write it at night after you went to bed, when you were little.”
Keigo felt a sudden warmth in his eyes.
His mother’s cooking wasn’t just a collection of recipes—it was a layered memory of love and family.
On the bullet train back to Tokyo, Keigo opened his phone and typed a note:
“Let’s create a ‘Home Cooking Day’ at the restaurant. Serve Mom’s recipes. Because that’s where my love for cooking began.”
In the window reflection, his face looked just a little softer.
