Maybe it’s not an ancestral calling, more likely just what the imperialists hypocritically call “colonial sentiment”, but I feel obligated as a Taiwanese person to get better at plating bento (便當).

Yes, these are Gorton’s frozen fish fillets fried in an oven and served with broccoli and carrots with melted cheese. Unless presented as a love gift, a bento in Taiwan has neither the romantic associations it has in Japan nor the Orientalist whimsy it has in the US. It’s a lunchbox, a cafeteria tray, a DIY TV dinner.

I’m learning, as an adult, with a simple meal I prepared myself in the local cuisine, how to pack a lunch properly. It’s the same drive, the same “oh shit better finish learning adulting”, as me learning how to make a good diner style cheeseburger on a stovetop. No one cares but me—it’s just a ritual of entering middle adulthood that, absent a wife and children, I must independently push myself to complete.

I will preempt any “senpai’s totally gonna notice you now!” jokes. I’ve moved beyond “motherfucker I’m the senpai now” well into otasan territory, and now I’m barreling full speed into kusojiji.