About 20 years ago, when my extended family decided to grace us with their presence from up North, I had the brilliant idea to whip up an elaborate, full-course Japanese feast for them—soup to nuts, with sushi rolls as the pièce de résistance. I kicked off my culinary marathon at the crack of dawn and didn’t wrap up until well past sundown. Meanwhile, my family was out gallivanting around town, enjoying every local attraction and specialty shop.
While they were making memories, I was making messes—up to my elbows in sticky rice and miso paste, questioning all my life choices. Not only did I miss out on the fun, but I also had to endure my big brother’s relentless sarcasm upon their return. “Still not ready?” he’d quip every hour on the hour. “Did you have to fly to Japan to get the ingredients?” And, of course, my kids and Dad would have preferred chicken fingers—”eww, I’m not eating raw fish, and that green stuff’s too hot!”
By the time dinner was finally served, I was exhausted, frazzled, and sporting a fashionable smear of wasabi on my forehead. The meal, I’ll admit, was fantastic—Gordon Ramsay would’ve been impressed. But of course, my brother couldn’t resist one last zinger: “You know, we could’ve just ordered Chinese takeout and saved you the trouble.” Classic.
Needless to say, I’ve since retired from hosting any multi-course Japanese dinners. Next time, I’m ordering pizza and joining the family outing—someone else can wear the wasabi.