Ichigo Ichie (一期一会)

One Time, One Meeting

There is a Japanese phrase, ichigo ichie, that translates to "one time, one meeting."

The expression is often associated with the Japanese tea ceremony, where hosts are taught to treat every gathering as unique and unrepeatable. Even if the same people sit together tomorrow, it will not be the same gathering. The season will have changed. The conversation will be different. The people themselves will be different. This exact moment will never happen again.

I don't think I truly understood this idea until I became a mother. Before children, time felt abundant. Days, months, and years blended together. Life moved steadily enough that it was easy to assume there would always be more time. More dinners. More vacations. More ordinary Tuesdays. Then Charlie arrived, and suddenly time seemed to speed up.

I blinked. One moment she was a tiny baby with the sweetest little hands and feet I'd ever seen. The next, she was running through the house, telling stories, asking questions, negotiating bedtime, and making us laugh with observations that seemed far too clever for someone her age. Now the same thing is happening with Margaux. It is one of the strangest experiences of parenthood. On one hand, you are proud and relieved as your children become more independent. You celebrate every milestone: the first steps, the first words, the first time they buckle themselves into a seat or put on their own shoes. On the other hand, part of you wants to grab time by the shoulders and beg it to slow down. Wait. Just stay little a little longer.

"The days are long, but the years are short" is the phrase that best captures this paradox. Some days feel endless. You are cleaning the same messes, answering the same questions, and reading the same bedtime story for the fourth time. You find yourself looking forward to bedtime, a quiet house, or the next stage when things might feel easier. Then suddenly that stage is over. The baby who needed to be carried everywhere wants to walk. The toddler who mispronounced her favorite words learns how to say them correctly. The little hand that reached for yours every chance it got eventually lets go. You realize that while you were waiting for the next phase, the current one quietly became a memory.

That is why I love ichigo ichie. At its heart, it is an invitation to be fully present. To understand that this conversation, this meal, this bedtime routine, and this ordinary Tuesday night dinner around the table exists exactly once in the history of the world. Tomorrow there will be another dinner, but not this one. Charlie will be a day older. Margaux will know something she didn't know today. I will be different too.

The beauty of life is not that it lasts forever. The beauty is that it doesn't. Every season arrives, gives us its gifts, and then passes on. The answer is not to cling tighter or mourn the passing of time. The answer is to notice it while it's here. To put down your phone. To listen to the story. To stay at the table a little longer. To memorize the sound of their laughter. To feel the weight of a sleepy child on your shoulder. To understand, while you're living it, that these are the good old days.

Perhaps that is why this idea feels so at home in a cookbook. A recipe is never really just a recipe. It is a snapshot of a moment in time. A Tuesday night dinner. A holiday gathering. A meal shared with people you love. Someday, when my girls make these recipes in their own kitchens, I hope they remember more than the ingredients. I hope they remember the feeling of being together around the table, because that is what ichigo ichie reminds us to cherish.

Life is not happening somewhere in the future. It is happening now. This meal. This moment. This season. This one precious, unrepeatable meeting.