Growing up in a family where both Italian and Japanese food cultures were represented, you can imagine my confusion about which approach to food was correct. Should I stuff myself with all the bread and pasta my stomach could handle without bursting? Or should I support my appetite with a more moderate sustenance of fish and rice? Since the Italian side of my family lives on the other side of the country, it became normal for my Japanese relatives' food to dominate my palate. I remember regularly taking family trips to our favorite Japanese restaurant called Gombei, and I was always so excited when we walked through the screen-printed tent and the manager yelled at us with an aggressive “Oh hi! Welcome back!" The strong smell of fish, rice and soy sauce was equivalent to the smell of home and gave me as strong a sense of belonging as walking into my own home. This continues to be what I consider the food culture of my family and will always hold a special place in my heart and stomach. Say no to plagiarism. Get a custom essay on "Why Violent Video Games Shouldn't Be Banned"? Barbara Kingsolver highlights how it is difficult for the new generation of teenagers in today's society to define who we actually are and therefore we identify with our food. She states that "we would certainly do better, if only we knew better", but it is really difficult to define ours food culture when “in two generations we have transformed from a rural nation to an urban nation” (8) This “we” is more all-encompassing, including us as the new generation of adolescents born in a period of extreme technological progress, ours. parents and the generation before us who helped make this progress possible. The rural, once agriculturally oriented nation that our grandparents knew America to be has more or less disappeared, having been replaced by the big cities and factories that now seem to run our lives. With all the separation we currently have from our food and how it is harvested, produced and brought to us, it becomes difficult to identify with this process and, consequently, difficult to identify with our food. But to deal with this ignorance we "also largely convinced ourselves that it was not too important" to know these things (9). He argues that we now strive to embrace “a strong presumption that education is the key to moving away from manual labor and dirt,” when he claims that they should actually go hand in hand (9). There is more than one type of education, and the knowledge a person can gain by understanding the food that fuels their daily life seems like it should be considered invaluable. Despite this, we as a society seem to prefer the sugar-coated version of our consumerism, which only recognizes the beautiful end product and rejects the reality of production and how much it can truly cost. No one wants to think about slaughtering animals and producing meat, but most people are happy to eat a bacon cheeseburger. Artificial flavors and preservatives take a back seat to the temporary satisfaction of a hostess cupcake, as we sweep reality under the rug for the sake of flavor and convenience. This is something I experience every day, from the way my food is packaged and received to the way it is mindlessly consumed. A big part of Japanese food culture is an appreciation of food, a complete recognition of what is needed to bring about the miracle of eating.Every fish, every grain of rice was once looked at with a reverence and gratitude rarely found in today's society. Maybe it's accessibility that has led to this transformation, but thinking back to what my ancestors had to endure for a meal, I feel grateful to have access to food. Reflecting on the experience of my ancestors, more specifically my grandparents, I am forced to recognize how lucky I am to have access to food the way I do. Although my grandfather is now deceased, I vividly remember the stories he told me about growing up on a farm in once-rural California. He would describe the backbreaking work he has been forced to do since he turned 12, going straight to work after rushing home from school and having to cram homework late at night so he can get up at dawn to get it all done. once again. He spoke to me about the warm sun beating down on him as he sowed the soil, planted seeds, and harvested the crops. He told me about seasons when crops refused to grow and their family felt lucky to even get a full meal. This farm was their livelihood and for a long time it was all my grandfather and his brothers knew. But despite all the pain it might have caused, it gave him an appreciation for food that the new generation sorely lacks. I can't remember a single meal he was served where he didn't enthusiastically take his first bite and exclaim, “Oh! This is good!” My grandfather was given the opportunity, through his hard work and perseverance, to go to college and become an artist. His family lost their farm during World War II and my grandfather was sent to a concentration camp with his family. It was there that he met my grandmother who had just turned 18. To leave the camp he joined the army, received a free education and became a highly successful artist, winning awards for his work and thriving in his art. . But his appreciation for food and what goes into making it has never waned. To the day of his death he never failed to recognize that everything was delicious and continued to regard every meal he received as a miracle. As for appreciating even the simplest foods, my grandparents were the first to teach me how to prepare one of the staple foods of Japanese food culture: rice. I remember when I was 10 years old asking to learn how to prepare the food that was in almost every meal I ate since I could chew solid foods. My family never used a rice cooker, they always washed rice carefully, and burning a rice cooker was a rare and shameful event. My grandparents called me into the kitchen and told me to measure out a cup of rice from the 5-pound bag they had always kept next to the refrigerator. I did as I was told, making sure the cup of rice was perfectly level. I was then told to pour it into a medium sized pot and take it to the sink. There I filled it halfway with water and used one hand to hold the pot and the other hand to stir the rice clockwise and then counterclockwise. I watched the water turn a hazy white color and was told that it was essential to always wash the rice before cooking it. I continued to wash the rice for a good 5 minutes, being careful not to let a single grain escape. Then I was told to pour the wet rice into a strainer and let the dirty water run off. Once the water was drained from the rice, we returned it to a medium-sized pot and I leveled the surface with my fist. Then my grandmother told me that the perfect amount of water to boil rice was.