They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. I’m not entirely sure about the science behind that proverb, but I do know this: my wife’s cooking has kept me surprised, delighted, and well-fed for over five decades.
When we married back in 1971, one of the unexpected gifts she brought into our life together was her astonishing talent in the kitchen. Not just a good cook—scrub that—she’s an exceptional chef. Her culinary journey began in Japan around 1959, when she was just twelve. Her mother wasn’t fond of cooking but didn’t mind tidying up, so a practical arrangement was struck: my future wife would cook, and her mother would clean. That division of labour has endured, albeit with a slight twist—these days, I’m the one doing the cleaning. And I’ve been doing it ever since we married.
Her cooking has evolved over the years, but the sense of adventure remains. From delicate Japanese dishes to bold Chinese flavours and what we might call Kiwi-fusion—ethnic inspirations reimagined with local flair—she continues to surprise me with what she creates. These days, I contribute to the meal prep too. My hand comes to the fore in pastas, pizzas, and the occasional heroic cut of meat. I cook about three nights a week, though my repertoire is a little more conservative. I know my place in the kitchen hierarchy.
I’ve just put together a short video titled Two Minutes of Dining In with Barry, showcasing some of the dishes we’ve made together recently. It’s a celebration of kai, of shared effort, and of the quiet joy that comes from preparing food for someone you love. It’s also a nod to the enduring rhythms of partnership—where one cooks, the other cleans, and both eat with gratitude.
Truth be told, we’re often disappointed when we dine out. The meals just don’t compare. So we dine in. And we dine well.
Aroha lives in many places. In our home, it often arrives plated, garnished, and served with a smile.
