Chelsia Durkee, writer & speaker

I sat transfixed as the sushi chef effortlessly molded the rice on his fingertips. It’s clear that he’s perfected this ritual, a reflex that he’s committed to thousands of times. I couldn’t tear my eyes away as he scooped the mounds of rice in his hands, molded and twirled it around in a few simple strokes, and plated it on top of the fish. He continued this motion, rolling the rice in an assembly line until the dish was complete. Giant slabs of tantalizing tuna and salmon sat behind the counter. I salivated as the chef cut the fish in a linear fashion, each piece’s shape perfectly paired to their rice counterpart.

My ever-churning mind always loves to ponder the backstories for the characters I come across. How many hours did he study his art? How many sushi rolls has he created? Probably in the thousands by now. Judging by his age, he’s likely in his 60s. If he started as a teenager, he would have been doing this for close to fifty years. I don’t speak Japanese, so I couldn’t inquire further, plus I didn’t want to break his steady rhythm.

If the chef has been perfecting his craft for 50 years, it clearly showed in the ease of his movements—and most importantly, the finished product. 

After my mom and I were both served our giant platters—neither of us wanted to share—we savored each piece as if it was our first Japanese meal. Of course, we had the American Japanese food back in San Francisco—the Raiders roll and the Dragon rolls being some of my favorites—but this sushi didn’t need any extra sauce, fried bits, or avocado to dress it up. Each bite of the fish melted in my mouth. The freshness alone put me back in my body.

Everything—from the ginger, wasabi, and the generous helping of the surprise miso soup with boiled fish—was exceptional and intended to be savored. I particularly loved the salmon roe as it popped in my mouth, the juice lingering on my tongue.

At Mikorezushi in Shinjuku, Tokyo, little English is spoken here. It’s a sweet, family-owned joint, and likely one of the reasons why our
Secret Food tour guide from the previous day recommended it to us. Across the bar, I could see the chef laughing and joking with old friends, the atmosphere jovial as regulars chowed down on huge plates of sushi, then bowed to each other as they exited through the tiny door.

At a sushi restaurant in Tokyo, I learned the art of perfecting just one simple task. In an era of multi-hyphenated, goldfish attention spans, I love the idea of dedicating one’s life to just one thing. 

When I got back from Japan, I could feel the familiar disease of urgency gripping my spirit. I had just gotten back from vacation with my mom, shouldn’t I still be emanating that vacation glow? A few days after I returned, my friend Chiamaka said I was still radiating that holiday vibe. So why did I go back to my old cycle of feeling like I had to chase down time? As I settled back into my routine in San Francisco, my familiar inner tyrant decided to interrupt the conversation:

I took two weeks off from writing, and those bylines aren’t going to secure themselves! 

I have so much to get done!

It’s almost half-way through the year!

Before I left for Japan, I told friends that I was going to create a workshop. Though I love storytelling, the stress of creating the workshop now clearly outweighs the benefits for me. When I peruse LinkedIn for writing opportunities, my feed is flooded with multi-hyphenate writers/speakers/founders/directors. I found myself comparing to their exhaustive list of surface-level success. And I’m happy for them. I really am. But you know what?

I’m just a writer. And I’m now okay with that. I’ve been perfecting my craft and I love doing what I do. Just like that sushi chef, I see myself continuing to write in 50 years. When I don’t write, I feel physically ill. It’s not something I think about, it’s just a natural instinct that takes over. 

During my two week vacation, I went to countless other restaurants across Tokyo, Kyoto, and Osaka, and the menu was often limited to just one or two types of dishes. If we wanted sashimi, we knew we has to go to a sushi restaurant. If we wanted wagyu beef, we went to a wagyu restaurant. It’s a common comfort in Japan. In the United States, it’s common to have long menus of fusion-this and fusion-that, with different spins on traditional cuisines. I found the Japanese style of eating to be transparent and refreshing.

One of my favorite restaurants was Menya Yukou in Kyoto, a cozy six-seat restaurant that only served one type of ramen and one type of cold noodles. Just like in Mikorezushi, I was mesmerized by the ease and confidence of the chefs’ hands. The steady hum of the noodle making and the shaking of the leftover water was another meditation I enjoyed. My mom and I both ordered the cold noodles and to this day, it was the best noodles I’ve ever eaten, Italy bar none. 

I love the diligence of dedicating one’s life to pursue just one thing. I love the idea that I can form a secure attachment to my art forms, a steady force of nature that I can always rely on to open up new worlds. Writing is no longer my side piece. I don’t need to act on every idea, because if I did, I would never have the time and space for my main lover, writing. So here I am at my desk, just a writer, just perfectly imperfectly me. Now I’m off to see what I can eat.

Has a certain type of food impacted the way you do something (or see something) in life? I’d love to know. Share in the comments below!

Xoxo,

Chelsia