* This essay column is written by a longtime foreign resident of Japan.

I'm not as flash as the "Naked Chef" and I tend to keep my clothes on -- that hot oil can really smart -- and I'm not as quick as the "Galloping Gourmet." Nor do I have the stamina of any of Japan's "Iron Chefs." But I believe that what I cook up in the kitchen is palatable and sometimes downright tasty. So I am disturbed that my family is suspicious of my culinary efforts.

My Japanese wife has always picked and pecked at her food like a sparrow, which is probably why she weighs less than 50 kg and is sometimes mistaken for a piece of two- by-four when seen from the side. Tom, my son, has a very good appetite and usually eats everything that is put in front of him. When he is off his food we know that he is about to come down with something.

When I cook something he looks at it as if eating it will result in him coming down with something.

I first noticed this problem two years ago when we went to England to visit my mum. She was hospitalized after suffering a minor stroke, so by unanimous assent I was installed as the housewife at my family home in the north of England. My wife was happy to sit back and watch me do all the cooking, cleaning and shopping, and in my spare time keep her and my son amused. She was less happy when it came to eating what I had cooked, and, like mother like son, this seemed to influence Tom.

My grilled salmon steaks with new potatoes and a mixed green salad were hardly touched; the liver and bacon casserole became the supper, and probably the breakfast, of the neighbor's dog; and my chicken and dumplings might as well have been served straight into the trash can. And so it went on throughout our two weeks in England. Everything I served was treated as though I was offering them salmonella on toast.

The only time I saw them enjoy a meal was when I had some Chinese food delivered or when I dug out some cup ramen that I'd brought with me from Japan just in case.

And now it's the same in Japan.

I admit that I cannot cook the ramen, soba or udon that Tom would live on if he could, but my grilled sanma with grated daikon is delicious. I know that my om-rice looks more like a scrambled eggs risotto, but I do a righteous meat sauce for spaghetti, penne or fusilli. And yes, my oden does look more like a very thin or a very fat vegetable soup. But my sausage, bacon and corned beef hash is to die for.

It's not that I try to force on them examples of exotic Yorkshire cuisine. Apart from Yorkshire Pudding -- as everyone knows that's the pudding that people from my part of England eat before their main meal -- most of the ingredients for Yorkshire specialties would be unobtainable here. It is unlikely that even the most international of international supermarkets would have black pudding, brawn, chitterlings or cow heels. I think the most exotic offering I've ever cooked up was a toasted bacon, cheese and Marmite sandwich. Although mouthwateringly good, apart from me I think only the gomi crows enjoyed it.

So by choice -- my wife's and my son's -- my culinary efforts are restricted to fast food. If his mum is going to be late and this presents one of the very few occasions when I'm in charge, Tom will choose a cook-in-the-bag curry or hayahashi rice, or some cup ramen -- he has no reservations about my ability to boil water -- or he'll want to wait for his mum to come home. If I offer any of my home cooking, it's always "mada, onaka ippai."

I feel like the chef on the Docchi no ryori cooking program on NTV whose specialty is not chosen by the panel of celebrities. Only my specialty is never chosen. I suppose I'm lucky. Like the losing chef on TV, I'm the only one who gets to eat and enjoy my specialties.

If you have any comments please e-mail me
at jtweekly@japantimes.co.jp .

The Japan Times Weekly: April 5, 2003
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