Standing in the autumn rice field makes my heart quiet and calm. The sound of the wind blowing through the rice plants is like turning the pages of a yearly story.
In spring, we filled the empty soil with water and planted tiny, finger-sized seedlings. At first, they looked weak and easy to break, but they reached up toward the sky. They shook in the wind, took the heavy rain, and silently stood the heat of midsummer. Watching them makes me want to stand tall, too.
Looking into the water of the field, I often said to myself,
"Will this grow into good rice this year?"
Water is not just water. The temperature, the flow, and the depth all change the future of the rice. If there is too much water, the roots get weak. If there is too little, the ears of rice get thin. We pull out weeds, and we carefully watch for diseases and bugs. And the weather never listens to our schedule. Rice farming is a job of talking with nature every day.
Koshihikari quietly lives through a year like this. At the end of summer, the green fields slowly turn golden. The ears get heavy, and the rice plants bow their heads. They look like they are saying, "We made it this far," and it makes me want to say, "Thank you."
Then comes the harvest. We dry the harvested grains, take off the husks, and make brown rice. When we polish it, shiny white rice appears. No matter how many times I see it, this moment always makes my heart beat fast.
When you open the rice cooker, soft steam goes up. Sweet smells come from the fluffy rice. You take one bite. In that moment, you feel your body relax deeply.
"Delicious."
That one word makes all the hard work of the year worth it.
The delicious taste of Koshihikari is not only in the rice itself. Spring planting, summer heat, autumn harvest—the long time spent in the rice field is packed into every single grain.
That is why I think:
Delicious rice is not just rice that tastes good.
It is tasting a whole year's story.