The Granddaughter's View

Misaki was studying “sustainable food systems” in an online class. When the teacher on screen said that “the current crisis is, in fact, also an opportunity,” she remembered a passage from the book in her grandfather’s study.

A crisis is a time when old values crumble and new possibilities open up.

It was a line from one of Shinomiya Seiichi’s books. The words of her grandfather, which she had once found incomprehensible and dull, had begun, strangely, to resonate in her heart.

When the online class ended, Misaki closed her laptop and looked out of the window. The town of Aogawa looked the same as always, and yet the air that moved through it was clearly changed. The people queuing outside the convenience store, the housewives from the neighbourhood deep in conversation on the roadside, the postman pedalling his bicycle rather faster than usual. Everyone seemed to be in a little more of a hurry.

“Misaki, lunch is ready.”

Her grandmother Chiyo’s voice came up from downstairs. Misaki left her room and went down.

The dining table was laid with a simple meal. A small side of boiled greens, a condiment of simmered kombu, and a little miso soup. There was no rice, the main staple; in its place were thinly sliced potatoes, fried until they crisped.

“I’m sorry it’s so sparse,” Chiyo said, smiling at her granddaughter. “But I thought carefully about the nutritional balance.”

“It’s fine, Grandma,” Misaki said, taking her seat. “Some of my friends at school are having it much harder.”

Grandmother and granddaughter began to eat quietly. Chiyo, as a former nutritionist, had the skill to make nourishing meals even from limited ingredients. Misaki had always admired her grandmother’s wisdom and expertise.

“Where’s Grandpa?” Misaki asked.

“Thinking away in his study,” Chiyo answered calmly. “He’s been at it since yesterday.”

Misaki ate another mouthful of the greens. “I tried reading a bit of Grandpa’s book.”

Chiyo looked at her granddaughter with a slightly surprised expression. “Oh, really? Wasn’t it hard going?”

“Yes, it was,” Misaki answered honestly. “But I wanted to know what Grandpa was thinking. Especially now, in a situation like this.”

Chiyo smiled gently. “Your grandfather has spent his life thinking about food. Not merely as scholarship, but as something to do with human dignity.”

Misaki listened to her grandmother’s words and savoured the crisp texture of the potato. “But how does Grandpa’s theory connect to what’s actually happening now?”

It was the same question Misaki had put to him at the family meeting the previous day, and Seiichi had been unable to give her a clear answer.

Chiyo thought for a little while before answering slowly. “Theory and reality don’t always connect perfectly. But theory is something like a lens through which we understand reality. And sometimes, it’s reality that teaches us something about theory.”

“A lens…” Misaki turned the image over in her mind. “But what if the lens is clouded?”

Chiyo gave a small laugh. “Sharp question. True, the lens does cloud sometimes. That’s why it always needs to be polished.”

The two of them went on eating in silence. The sunlight coming in through the window made a bright square on the table.

“Grandma,” Misaki said again. “What do you think we should do with the one gō of rice?”

Chiyo set down her chopsticks and looked steadily at her granddaughter. “What do you think?”

Misaki was a little surprised. Adults did not often ask for her opinion — especially not on important decisions.

“I think…” Misaki said, as if organising her thoughts. “We should all eat a little bit each. But perhaps some should be kept as seed rice.”

Chiyo asked, curious. “Seed rice?”

“Yes,” Misaki went on, with a little more confidence. “We’ve been studying sustainability at school. How important it is to preserve seeds for the future. That we need a long-term view, rather than short-term satisfaction.”

Chiyo’s eyes shone with a gentle light. “That’s a wonderful idea. I’d love your grandfather to hear it.”

When the meal was over, Chiyo suggested, “Why don’t you take him some tea? I’m sure he’d be glad of it.”

Misaki nodded, loaded the tea her grandmother had made on to a tray, and went up to the study on the first floor.

The study door was half open. Misaki knocked, but there was no reply. She peeped in to find Seiichi sitting in the large leather chair, holding an old book, gazing out of the window.

“Grandpa,” Misaki called softly. “Tea.”

Seiichi came back to himself and turned to look at his granddaughter. “Ah, Misaki. I’m sorry — I was lost in thought.”

Misaki set the tray down on the small table in the study. The room was packed with books. A bookcase covering an entire wall, mountains of books stacked on the floor, several books open on the desk. Her grandfather seemed to be floating alone in a sea of knowledge.

“What were you reading?” Misaki asked.

Seiichi looked at the book in his hand. “My old research notebooks. Some of them are from more than thirty years ago.”

“Oh,” Misaki said, drawing closer with interest. “So you’d been researching food even then.”

“That’s right,” Seiichi said, a touch proudly. “In those days I never imagined a situation like this would become reality.”

Misaki sat down on the small chair beside her grandfather. “Is your theory any use, Grandpa? In a situation like this?”

It was a direct question. Seiichi looked at his granddaughter for a moment, then let out a sigh.

“Honestly, I don’t know,” he said, in an unusually uncertain tone. “The gap between theory and reality is, at times, greater than I thought.”

Misaki was surprised. Seeing her usually confident grandfather show this kind of hesitation was rare.

“But there’s one thing I do understand, in what you say,” Misaki said.

“What is it?”

“That food isn’t just nutrition,” she said with a serious expression. “It’s special because we eat together, isn’t it. Sharing it with others feels more… meaningful than eating alone.”

Something brightened in Seiichi’s eyes. “Yes, exactly. Eating is a social act, a cultural act. It is not merely the intake of calories.”

“So this one gō of rice as well,” Misaki went on. “How we use it shows what kind of people we are.”

Seiichi seemed to be looking at his granddaughter with new eyes. That the Misaki who had found his books difficult to follow should grasp their very heart this clearly.

“Misaki,” Seiichi said seriously. “What do you want to do? With this rice.”

Misaki thought for a moment, then said, “I had three things in mind. Part to eat, part to keep as seed rice, and part…”

“Part?” Seiichi prompted.

“Part for your research, Grandpa,” Misaki said. “To try and see, in practice, how theory connects to reality.”

Seiichi’s eyes went wide with surprise. Then, slowly, a smile spread across his face. “An interesting proposal.”

“It’s what I’ve been learning at school,” Misaki explained. “About sustainable food systems. How important the balance between eating and growing is. About how to reconcile present satisfaction with future possibility.”

Seiichi nodded, impressed. “That is perfectly consistent with the fundamental thinking in my research. The ethics of food has a time dimension. It needs to be considered not only in the present, but in connection with the past and the future.”

Misaki took out her smartphone and worked the screen. “Look at this,” she said, showing it to her grandfather. “We’ve been talking about it in our class’s group chat. Everyone’s started growing small vegetables at home.”

The screen showed photos of vegetables her classmates were growing on windowsills and in small containers. Lettuce, komatsuna, cherry tomatoes… Each was their own generation’s response to the crisis.

“Interesting,” Seiichi said, leaning to look at the screen. “It is encouraging to see young people taking such practical action.”

“Yes,” Misaki nodded. “But honestly, I’m scared too. The things I see about the situation in the world when I go online…”

She broke off. In her smartphone lived a fear and anxiety shared only by her own generation — a reality adults could not see, or perhaps did not want to.

Seiichi seemed to read something in his granddaughter’s expression. “Misaki, you need not fear. Mankind has overcome food crises many times before. This time too, surely—”

“But some people say this time is different,” Misaki interrupted. “That climate change is accelerating too fast for us to adapt in time.”

Seiichi was silent. He wanted to argue against what his granddaughter had said, but as a scholar, he could not deny the possibility.

“The uncertainty is certainly high,” Seiichi admitted honestly. “But that is precisely why our choices matter. Small decisions, accumulated — the way we use one gō of rice — generate a new direction.”

Misaki seemed slightly relieved. She was glad, no doubt, that her grandfather had not denied her anxiety but taken it in.

“In that case,” she said, standing, “can I say what I think at this afternoon’s family meeting?”

“Of course,” Seiichi said firmly. “Your perspective brings us new insight.”

As Misaki was about to leave the study, Seiichi called her back. “Misaki, I want to ask you something.”

“What?”

“How does your generation think about food?” he asked with a serious expression. “I expect you have a different sense of it from ours.”

Misaki thought for a little while, then answered. “We think about food more in terms of… relationships, maybe. Our relationship with nature, with other people, with the future. Not just as a thing.”

Seiichi nodded deeply. “Is that so… food ethics as relationship. Fascinating.”

“Let’s talk about it more at the afternoon meeting,” Misaki said with a smile, and left the study.

Seiichi stood by the window and picked up his tea. Outside, the spring sunlight was falling on the houses of Aogawa. His conversation with his granddaughter seemed to have given him a new perspective. A sense that the philosophy of food he had been researching for over thirty years had been breathed into new life by the straightforward words of a sixteen-year-old girl.

He went back to the table and opened his notebook. Under the heading “Food as Relationship,” he began a new chapter. Between theory and practice, a new bridge — narrow, but real — had begun to take shape.