ベジタリアンだった頃<When I Was a Vegetarian>

ロサンゼルスに暮らしていた一九七〇年代の終わり頃、私はどこか疲れを抱えながら日々を過ごしていた。食欲はあるのに、何を食べても身体の奥に重さが残るような感覚があった。そんなとき、強い思想があったわけではないのだが、ふと「一度、身体の中をきれいにしてみたい」と思った。それがきっかけで、私は十年ほどベジタリアンとして暮らすことになる。好きな卵だけはやめなかったが、肉も魚も口にしなかった。

始めてみると、味噌汁の出汁ひとつにも困った。煮干しも鰹節も使えないので、昆布と干し椎茸を水に浸し、一晩置いた。これが思いのほかおいしかった。食べられないものが増える一方で、知らなかった味に出会う面白さもあった。

やがて肉や魚は、私の中で食べ物ではなくなっていった。身体だけでなく、ものの見方まで変わっていくのが不思議だった。

ベジタリアンの仲間も増えた。だが中には、その食生活を人間の優劣を測る物差しのように考える人もいた。自由になるための選択が、いつの間にか人を縛り、他者を裁くものになっている。そのことに、私は少し怖さを感じた。

ロサンゼルスの中近東ヴィーガン料理店では、魚や肉を小麦のグルテンで再現した料理も食べた。とてもよくできてはいたが、なぜそうまでして食べる事を避けている本物に似せるのかという違和感が残った。

一方、日本に戻った時、奈良で食べた普茶料理には、同じように鰻を植物性の素材で再現しているのに、まったく違和感を感じなかった。

そこには、食への敬意、食べる人への心遣い、季節や器や空間まで整えようとする精神があった。

似せているものは同じでも、出発点が違う。

その違いは完成したものに必ず現れる。

これは食べ物だけの話ではない。

デザインも同じだ。

形はつくれる。

似せることもできる。

けれど、なぜその形なのか。

その答えがなければ、どれほど上手につくられていても、どこか空虚になる。

私は十年のベジタリアン生活を通して、ものづくりの本質を教えられたのかもしれない。

形の奥に、精神があるかどうか。

When I Was a Vegetarian

In the late 1970s, while living in Los Angeles, I often found myself carrying a quiet sense of fatigue. I had an appetite, yet no matter what I ate, it always felt as though a heaviness remained somewhere deep inside me.

One day, I found myself thinking, “Perhaps I should cleanse my body from within.” That simple thought led me to spend nearly ten years as a vegetarian.

I never gave up eggs—they were simply too much of a favorite—but I stopped eating both meat and fish.

It wasn’t driven by ideology or conviction.

I was simply tired and wanted to start over from the inside.

Once I began, even making miso soup became a new challenge. Since I no longer ate fish, I couldn’t use dried sardines or bonito flakes for the broth. Instead, I learned to soak kombu seaweed and dried shiitake mushrooms overnight.

To my surprise, the flavor was wonderful.

As my choices became more limited, I discovered tastes I had never known before.

Before long, meat and fish no longer felt like food to me.

It was a strange transformation.

Not only did my body change, but so did the way I looked at the world.

As time passed, I met more people who shared the same lifestyle. Yet some seemed to believe that their way of eating somehow made them better than others.

A choice that should have brought freedom had quietly become a way of judging people.

That realization unsettled me.

I also remember visiting a Middle Eastern vegan restaurant in Los Angeles.

There, fish and meat were recreated with remarkable skill using wheat gluten. The craftsmanship was impressive, yet one question remained with me:

Why go to such lengths to imitate the very foods you have chosen not to eat?

Years later, back in Japan, I encountered Fucha Ryori, the traditional Buddhist vegetarian cuisine of Nara.

It, too, recreated eel using plant-based ingredients.

Yet this time I felt no discomfort whatsoever.

Instead, I was deeply moved.

There was a profound respect for food itself, a quiet consideration for those who would eat it, and an awareness that embraced the season, the tableware, and even the surrounding space.

The dishes looked similar.

Their point of departure was not.

And that difference inevitably revealed itself in the finished work.

I eventually realized that this was never just about food.

The same is true of design.

A form can always be created.

It can even be imitated.

But unless there is a genuine reason behind that form, no matter how beautifully it is crafted, something will always feel empty.

Looking back, I believe those ten years as a vegetarian taught me something far beyond the act of eating.

They taught me the essence of creation.

What truly matters is whether there is a spirit behind the form.