"My Awakening" by a Global Kitchen Explorer – Minori Okaneya Finds Insight and Hope in the Morning Hours

Whenever I stay in someone’s home abroad, I always look forward to waking up in the morning.

My passion is discovering the social and cultural stories behind daily meals—what I call “Global Kitchen Exploration.” I visit families across the world and cook with them as part of their everyday routines. When I’m allowed to stay in their homes, every moment from waking to sleeping becomes an encounter with unfamiliar meals, turning ordinary life into something extraordinary.

When I open my eyes in a new bed, the first thing I do is listen carefully. Is the family already up? Was that running water from the toilet, or from the kitchen?

At home, I’d usually hit snooze with a lazy “Just five more minutes,” but on these trips, I jump up with excitement: What’s for breakfast? I need to get up before they start cooking! Pretending to go to the bathroom, I peek into the kitchen—and sure enough, the mother (or sometimes the father) is already prepping something. I rush to get dressed and head to them with a cheerful “Good morning!” Every morning brings a new scene, and with it, the thrill of a day about to begin.

One of my most vivid morning memories is Easter in Belgium. In Christian countries, Easter, celebrating the resurrection of Jesus, is as important as Christmas.

I woke up and followed the delicious smell into the kitchen—only to be stunned. The table looked nothing like the day before.

Colorful chocolate eggs, big and small, were scattered across the surface, and chicken-shaped candles were placed here and there. The wonderful aroma came from freshly baked bread, which the mother was pulling from the oven. “Good morning,” she said, showing me the cutest bread shaped like a bunny holding an egg. One for each of us. It must have taken time to shape them so carefully.
When the family joined the table, we said a prayer—which was something special to do that day—then poured fresh-squeezed orange juice and began our breakfast. I felt the excitement of a truly special day.



In a nomadic family’s yurt on the summer plains of Mongolia, mornings began at 5 a.m. With five of us sleeping together, I didn’t need to strain my ears—adults woke up first, while the kids pulled the blankets over their heads until they were kicked out of their beds and forced to wake up.

As soon as the mother got up, she headed straight to the river next to the house to brush her teeth, then began her daily dairy work. Since everyone slept in their daytime clothes, there was no need to change. I tried my best to keep up, but as I scrambled to pull out bottle after bottle—face wash, toner, moisturizer, sunscreen—I was immediately left behind. “Why do I make my life so unnecessarily complicated?” I wondered. Before long, I found myself using fewer and fewer bottles each day.

Splashing river water on my face and looking up, I saw mist rolling over the grasslands stretching endlessly before me, with a herd of cattle in the distance. The natural beauty felt like a living painting. Had I been so focused on skincare that I missed this view before? In that quiet hour, when neither the people nor the sun were fully awake, I felt the raw, grounding power of the earth.


One particularly tough morning was in the highlands of Peru, where I stayed with a potato-farming family. I asked what time they woke up—“5 a.m.,” they said—but when I got up at 5, breakfast was already cooked. Determined to watch the process next time, I tried to get up earlier, but the cold and darkness defeated me.

“Did you sleep okay?” the mother asked, handing me a warm pot wrapped in cloth and a piece of bread. I realized the food she’d made wasn’t breakfast. With a sweet cup of milk coffee and bread in hand, I headed out with her and the father toward the fields in the dim light.

When we arrived, relatives were already harvesting oats. The chill from the night made the stalks crisp, so they preferred to finish before the sun warmed them. We started around 6 a.m., sickles in hand like rice harvesters, but at such high altitude—above Mount Fuji’s summit—I was out of breath in no time. I never expected a “mountain workout” first thing in the morning.

Around 8 a.m., as the sun rose higher, someone called for a break. I sank into the corner of the field. The pot we carried was filled with fried potatoes and white rice—a combination I’d never seen. The mother handed me a heaping plate. The steamed, softened potatoes and firm, slightly crunchy rice—cooked at high altitude—filled me up with every bite. I devoured it. I’d never had a breakfast that felt so nourishing.

As we walked back, sunlight flooded the world. Each step brought warmth. I never realized how much energy the sun has. That early morning fieldwork had been grueling, but between the meal and the rising sun, I was overcome with a deep, invigorating sense of life.

The world is vast, full of diverse cultures and ways of life—but morning comes for everyone.

With each new day, the sunlight breathes life into the world again. In witnessing how mornings differ from one place to another, I find insights into my own way of living. In the light, I also find hope. And in that way, my sense of what’s “normal” keeps evolving.

I want to keep cherishing this quiet, precious time that comes to us all, every single day.