Marques spears

Before I knew the word umami

I knew the feeling —

something deep and unnameable

sitting at the back of the tongue,

telling you: this is real.

My mother didn’t cook Japanese food.

But somewhere between Milwaukee winters

and a bowl of ramen that cost eight dollars

and tasted like someone’s grandmother made it,

I started to understand

that food is never just food.

In Japan they say itadakimasu before eating —

a word that means I humbly receive.

Not let’s eat. Not bon appétit.

But an acknowledgment

that something was given

so that you could be full.

I think about that every time I sit down.

There is a practice called shokunin —

a craftsman’s devotion so complete

it becomes spiritual.

A ramen chef who spent thirty years

perfecting one broth.

Not for fame.

Just because the bowl deserved it.

I am nineteen years old

and I am still learning what I deserve

and what deserves my full attention.

But I know this:

the cultures that taught me to slow down,

to taste, to receive with humility,

to give a craft everything —

those lessons live in me now

the way broth lives in the bone.

Long after the meal ends.

Long after the warmth fades.

Still there.

Still working.

Itadakimasu.

I humbly receive.

I humbly begin