What a Loaf of Bread Tells

“And this is still perfectly edible.”

Chiyo had stopped at the communal refuse area. On her morning walk she had turned her steps there, wanting to confirm once more the sight she had witnessed the day before. Inside the transparent bag was packed even more food than she had expected.

A whole loaf of bread, not even taken out of its wrapper. When she checked the date, today was the sell-by day itself. From her long experience as a nutritionist, Chiyo judged the state of the bread by eye. No mould, its shape unspoilt. It was perfectly fit to eat.

“Grandma, what are you doing?”

Misaki had come running after her, worried that her grandmother had gone out alone so early in the morning.

“Look at this bread,” Chiyo said, showing her granddaughter the contents of the rubbish bag. “It’s still fresh. In Aogawa it would surely have been treasured.”

Misaki peered into the bag too. Besides the bread there were apples only slightly bruised, yoghurt dated for today, and tins with nothing more than a small dent in the casing.

“Why would they throw it away?” Misaki asked the question frankly. “What a waste.”

Just then a middle-aged woman appeared from the building’s entrance. She wore an apron and carried a large reusable bag over her shoulder. Her hair was short, her eyes keen but her expression approachable.

“Oh, you must be the new residents,” the woman said, in fluent English. “I’m Margaret Harris. I live in 3B.”

Chiyo bowed hastily. She could hardly speak English, but she wanted her wish to greet her to come across.

“Shinomiya Chiyo,” she said, pronouncing her own name slowly. “Japan.”

Margaret’s face brightened. “From Japan! Wonderful. I’ve worked for years on reducing food loss. I work at the food bank here in the area.”

Misaki began to interpret. “My grandmother is troubled by seeing food being thrown away. In Japan — especially recently — food has been very precious.”

“Oh, I see,” Margaret said, showing her understanding. “It’s true, this is a big problem. But there are complicated circumstances too. May I explain a little?”

The three of them sat on a bench in the building’s courtyard, and Margaret began to explain gently.

“In Britain, food-safety standards are very strict. Once a sell-by date passes, even by a single day, a shop can no longer sell the item. It’s to avoid legal liability.”

When Misaki interpreted for her, Chiyo nodded deeply. Her expression said she could understand it, but could not accept it.

“But,” Margaret went on, “activists like us try to put this discarded food to good use. At the food bank we gather food that’s still safe to eat and distribute it to people who need it.”

Chiyo took a small notebook from her bag and wrote the word “Mottainai” in katakana to show her.

“What is this?” Margaret asked, intrigued.

“It means ‘mottainai’ in Japanese,” Misaki explained. “It’s a concept — a deep regret at wasting things, and a recognition of their value that makes you treasure them.”

Margaret’s eyes lit up. “Mottainai… what a wonderful word. It’s a perfect concept for our work.”

Chiyo stood, pointed at the rubbish bag, then to her own chest, then to Margaret, and asked in halting English, “Together?”

Margaret understood what Chiyo meant. “You’d like to work together? Of course. Why don’t you come and see the food bank this afternoon?”

When Misaki interpreted, Chiyo nodded happily.

That afternoon, Chiyo and Misaki visited the local food bank together with Margaret. The facility, in the basement of an old church, was more organised than they had imagined.

“Every day, huge amounts of food arrive from the nearby supermarkets,” Margaret explained. “But sometimes we can’t keep up with it all.”

In the large room, still-edible food was sorted and laid out by type. Bread, dairy, fruit, vegetables, tins. Each was merely near its date or had some small flaw in appearance; in truth it was all perfectly fit to eat.

Chiyo picked up each item and checked its quality with a nutritionist’s eye. Then she nodded, impressed.

“Grandmother says these are all perfectly good,” Misaki interpreted. “In Japan, we would never waste food like this.”

“But we don’t waste it here either,” Margaret explained. “The problem is matching supply and demand. The challenge is managing efficiently which food goes to whom, and when.”

Chiyo tapped Margaret lightly on the arm, trying to convey something. Misaki understood her grandmother’s intent and interpreted.

“My grandmother says she’d like to cook something with these ingredients. She wants to demonstrate, with Japanese methods, that they can still be eaten and enjoyed.”

Margaret’s eyes went wide. “What a wonderful idea! In fact, there’s a small kitchen here. As well as handing out food to local people, we sometimes hold cooking demonstrations.”

The next day, Chiyo headed to the food bank early in the morning to prepare for the cooking demonstration she had promised Margaret. Using ingredients she had chosen the day before — tomatoes gone a little soft, potatoes with blemished skins, tofu near its date — she planned to make a Japanese-style simmered dish.

Misaki went along to interpret. Seiichi and Kentaro each had their own errands and would join them in the evening.

The food bank’s kitchen was small, but it had the utensils she needed. With practised hands, Chiyo began preparing the ingredients.

“Japanese cooking puts great value on bringing out the natural taste of the ingredients,” Misaki explained to Margaret. “My grandmother says she ‘converses with the ingredients.’”

Chiyo carefully cut away the spoiled parts and cooked using only what was still good. Several volunteer staff who had come to watch were impressed by how deftly she worked.

“I thought these vegetables were only fit to be thrown out,” one of the staff said. “But there’s still so much you can do with them.”

Chiyo added the prepared vegetables to a stock she had drawn from kombu and bonito flakes, and began to simmer them. With only simple seasoning, a rich aroma spread throughout the kitchen.

“This scent…” Margaret breathed in deeply. “It’s so gentle. You can produce a smell this delicious without any artificial flavourings?”

Chiyo smiled and answered in English, “Natural.”

When the dish was done, she ladled it into small bowls and handed them round to those who had gathered. Everyone savoured the first mouthful carefully.

“This is…” Margaret cried out in surprise. “Unbelievably delicious. To think that ingredients on the verge of being thrown away yesterday could become such a marvellous dish.”

The other staff were just as moved. Chiyo’s cooking did not merely rescue the ingredients; it gave them new value.

“In Japan, we say ‘itadakimasu’ before we begin a meal,” Misaki explained. “It’s a word that expresses gratitude to the living things that became our food, and to the people who raised them.”

Margaret put her hands together and tried saying, “Itadakimasu.” Her pronunciation was clumsy, but the feeling came through well enough.

In the afternoon, local residents who had heard the rumour came to watch. An elderly couple, a young mother with her child, students. A diverse crowd looked on as Chiyo cooked.

Even without a shared language, Chiyo communicated with people through gesture and through her cooking. She demonstrated how to handle the ingredients, had them taste, and shared recipes through Misaki.

In the evening, when Seiichi and Kentaro joined them, a warm atmosphere had spread through the food bank.

“This has gone further than I expected,” Seiichi said, impressed. “It’s as if I’m witnessing the very moment when the food-loss problem I understood in theory meets a practical solution.”

Kentaro agreed. “At the international conference it was all talk of grand systems, but perhaps it’s grassroots activity like this that brings about real change.”

Margaret expressed her gratitude to the whole Shinomiya family. “Thanks to Chiyo, a new dimension has been added to our work. We’ve learned how to do more than rescue food — how to turn it into delicious, meaningful meals.”

Chiyo nodded, bashful but glad. Then she handed Margaret a slip of paper on which she had written “Mottainai.”

“I’d like to make this word the motto of our work,” Margaret said, receiving the paper as if it were precious.

On the way home, the Shinomiya family talked over the day’s events.

“I never thought it would turn out like this, starting from one loaf of bread,” Misaki said.

“Perhaps food is a common language that transcends words,” Seiichi murmured philosophically.

Chiyo walked along contentedly. Even without a shared language, she had been able to convey her own values through cooking. And those values had been accepted by others.

“I want to go again tomorrow,” Chiyo said in Japanese. “I want to share the spirit of ‘mottainai’ with even more people.”

Kentaro translated his mother’s words into English and made the arrangement with Margaret. Chiyo’s “mottainai cooking class” would now be held regularly.

That night, the Shinomiya family’s table was laid with a dinner made from ingredients brought back from the food bank. It was not merely a meal, but a symbol of new friendship and understanding.

“To think a single loaf of bread could teach us so much,” Seiichi said, deeply moved.

Misaki posted the day’s events on social media. She wanted to tell friends all over the world that the Japanese concept of “mottainai” was beginning to take on a new meaning in London.

Outside the window, the London night was deepening. But the hearts of the Shinomiya family were warm. Their experience of the “Last Measure of Rice” in Aogawa had now become the beginning of a new story — “a loaf of bread.”

International understanding and cooperation through food. That was the first great discovery of their stay in London.