'Shoku wa inochi! (Food is life itself)' was one of my grandmother's maxims, which when I was growing up, I was never able to fathom.
If food was that important, what was the deal with all the genmai (unpolished rice), homemade — and therefore oddly shaped — umeboshi (pickled plums), miso concoctions ad nauseum and nimono (broiled and seasoned vegetables)?
Our dining table was predominantly, depressingly brown, punctuated here and there by small bursts of leafy greenery. If this was "life itself" I longed to switch to another state of existence, preferably offset by a spiraling, golden staircase laden with cheeseburgers and Haagen Dazs.