The Mottainai Spirit of Nokorimono: How Leftovers Travel from Plate to Plate / 残り物から、もう一膳

Leftovers as Memory Keepers

Some meals are not defined by what you bought, but by what remains. Sharing some of those meals.

After several days of cooking with pickled chrysanthemum petals and fragrant myoga, our fridge had a quiet collection of small containers – beautiful, unfinished memories of previous meals. There were still uncooked petals, abundant delicious pickles from Tsukiji Market, and some other nice goodies I had not had chance to finish. None of them seemed to shout for attention. But together, they became the next story.

As I have shared previously, I made two types of maze gohan – mixed rice. One was delicate, floral, a whisper of vinegar and blossom: the chrysanthemum and myoga version. The other, bold and briny, came alive with chirimen-jako, umeboshi, shiso, and crunchy pickles. Each had a distinct voice, yet both carried the soul of what had come before. The kitchen felt calm, like an echo of days spent with care.

The Mottainai Principle on the Plate

In Japan, there’s a term that always sits at the back of my mind when I cook: mottainai. It loosely translates to “what a waste,” but it holds more than just thrift. It’s a reverence for materials, for what nature provides, for the work someone once did to grow, prepare, and serve that ingredient. Every time I glance at a jar of pickles or a leftover spoonful of marinade, it whispers: “There’s still more here. Don’t let me go unnoticed.”

When I open the refrigerator and see jars of pickles or the last spoonful of marinade, mottainai whispers gently: “There is still something here. A memory. A possibility. Don’t let it pass unnoticed.” That sense of respect guided this meal. I didn’t want to just “use up” the ingredients, I wanted to give them a second story.

In quest for my ideal Asagohan (breakfast) – Tsukemono Stall at Tsukiji

As I always hope to do whenever I’m back in Japan, I made my way to Tsukiji again this morning. One of my quiet joys there is visiting my favorite tsukemono stall, a place that feels almost unchanged each time I return. The market stalls were overflowing with small batches of seasonal pickles, each resting in its own brine like a fragment of someone’s long-practiced craft. I moved from box to box, choosing just a little of my favorites: the crisp yellow kabocha, the bright pink radish, the inky-purple eggplants that look almost lacquered. Every tub held a different pickling liquid, which meant each small bag grew heavier with its own story.

Once home, I drained every piece carefully, sliced them into bite-sized portions, and arranged them on a plate the way Japanese breakfasts invite you to: simply, quietly, with respect for the ingredients themselves.

With miso soup on the side and a bowl of natto—today I even compared a few varieties, noticing how each had its own texture and aroma—the table felt complete. A morning built from small things, carrying the steady comfort only tsukemono can give.

Tofu with Pickles – A Celebration of Texture

When tofu is exceptionally silky, sometimes it doesn’t need cooking at all. I occasionally skip the sauce and sprinkle chopped pickles over fresh tofu. A splash of soy sauce or a dash of salt, maybe a wisp of wasabi, and that’s all.

This meal was a perfect stage for such simplicity. The leftover chrysanthemum pickles brought a subtle floral lift. The myoga added brightness that cut through the tofu’s creaminess. And the pickles from Tsukiji Market contributed boldness, a reminder of bustling market aisles and the thrill of seeing ingredients packed into wooden boxes lined with ice.

In dishes like this, texture tells the story more than flavor does. Soft against crisp. Creamy against vinegared. The tofu becomes a quiet landscape, and the pickles are the characters that wander across it. It’s a gentle dish, but it reveals layers the longer you sit with it.

A Floral Thread Through the Meal

Chrysanthemum flowers have belonged to Japanese culture for centuries. Their presence in autumn foods feels natural, almost inevitable. Yet they also travel through Chinese medicinal cooking, believed to calm the body during the season when certain organs tend to weaken. When I sprinkle petals over tofu or fish, I’m reminded that seasonality is more than timing. It is emotional. It is bodily. It is cultural. A single flower can carry a library of history.

In this meal, the chrysanthemum’s floral tone drifted softly in the background. It didn’t dominate any single dish, yet it connected all of them like an invisible ribbon. Even when served on different plates, each dish felt like part of the same page in an autumn journal.

The Comfort of Mentaiko Sauce Tofu

The first dish was tofu topped with warm mentaiko sauce. This is one of those meals that feel like a quiet gesture of comfort after a long day. The sauce is made from nothing more than mentaiko, sake, and a little starch whisked until it thickens into a glossy coating. Once poured over warm tofu, the dish becomes a soft blend of heat, umami, and nostalgia.

There is something deeply sincere about mentaiko. I often enjoy it plain over rice, and for a stretch of mornings, it became my go-to lazy breakfast alongside natto straight from the pack. There is a vulnerability in admitting this, but also a sense of truth. Not all comforting foods are elaborate. Often, they are the simplest ones.

This mentaiko tofu dish made perfect sense next to pickled chrysanthemum and myoga. The tofu’s mildness allowed the floral pickles to express themselves without conflict. And the leftover pickles gained a new purpose: a topping that added crunch, acidity, and a hint of bitterness that made the tofu more alive. The dish was warm yet light, a conversation between freshness and fermentation.

Grilled Fish and the Power of Season

The meal continued with grilled seasonal fish. Autumn Sanma and Saba have a presence that is impossible to ignore. They are deeply tied to Japanese seasonal memory. When they appear in markets, you feel autumn even if the air stays warm.

In many Japanese homes, fish are grilled in the built-in broiler beneath the stovetop. It is a humble device, but it produces a flavor impossible to fully replicate in larger ovens. The smell of the fish broiling spreads through the kitchen, signaling that the meal is nearly ready.

I topped the grilled fish with grated daikon, something that feels almost ceremonial in autumn. Daikon’s clean, watery bitterness cools the richness of the fish. The pickles served on the side were not meant to be the main act, yet they completed the plate in a way that only leftovers can: quietly, respectfully, with charm.

Same for mackerels. Even the question of plating came to mind. Should the head be on the left? Which side should face up? These small concerns made me feel connected to my cultural upbringing, even if the fish itself seemed unbothered by such questions.

Meals Built From What Remains

What I love most about leftovers is how they humble you. They suggest possibilities instead of instructions. They make you collaborate with what you have rather than insist on what you want. These meals were not planned. They evolved from small containers, from the quiet whisper of chrysanthemum petals, from pickles that had mellowed just enough, from tofu chosen for another purpose, and from fish that happened to look good that morning.

And in the end, these dishes came together more harmoniously than any fully planned feast could have. There is something tender about building a meal from the remains of other meals. It carries memory. It carries continuity. It carries the mottainai spirit without effort

贅沢な残り物、福がありすぎるごはんたち

連日菊の花やみょうがを使って料理をしていたため、冷蔵庫には少しずつ残った漬物や下ごしらえした食材が所狭しと並んでいます。どれも量は多くありませんが、そのときの食卓を思い出させてくれる名残で、「もったいない」という気持ちが自然と働き、できるだけ丁寧に使い切りたくなります。

お漬物。今回も、帰国中に足を運んだ築地の漬物屋さんで好みのものを少量ずつ購入し、家に戻ってから汁気を切り、ひと口大に切って並べて朝ごはんにしました。味噌汁と納豆を添えれば、それだけで十分満足できる一膳になります。絹ごし豆腐に刻んだ漬物をたっぷりのせるだけでも、食感の対比が楽しい一皿になります。

別の日は、明太子を酒でのばしてとろみをつけた明太子豆腐に、菊の花を散らばせて、やさしい旨味と華やかな香りを合わせました。また、秋のさんまやさばを焼いたときには、大根おろしと一緒に少量の漬物を添えるだけで、季節の味わいがより引き立ちます。どれも手間のかからない料理ですが、残りものが次の一膳を自然につくり出してくれるような心地よさがあります。

こうした食事を通して、残りものは単なる余りではなく、前の料理の記憶や季節の気配を運んでくれる存在なのだと感じます。少しの工夫で新しい一皿に生まれ変わり、また次の食卓へつながっていきます。素材を最後まで生かすことが、暮らしのリズムを整え、食事の満足感にもつながっているように思います。