"When life gives you carrots…make carrot soup." — Koko Kawasaki

The other day, my husband came home with a very large bag of carrots. My body tensed up as he set them on the counter.

"We can't eat all these carrots," I said. "And I don't have time to figure out what to do with them. Maybe you can take them to work, snack on them, or share them with your colleagues?"

He told me not to worry, that he'd take care of it. But I wasn't so sure, so I stayed upset.

We already had carrots at home. I had just bought some the day before, so now we had way more than enough. And it wasn't the first time he'd brought home a big bag of something.

Sometimes it's a large bag of avocados or lemons, leftovers from a catered work function, or multiple loaves of banana bread from a friend who bakes them all the time.

My husband usually insists he'll eat it all. But past experience has shown that it doesn't always happen.

The next day, I felt less stressed and decided to make puréed carrot soup. I cooked the carrots, added ginger, turmeric, broth, and coconut milk, then blended everything together. It turned out better than I expected.

Carrot crisis averted.

But I kept thinking about my initial reaction in the days that followed.

Why did the bag of carrots bother me so much?

Was it just about not being able to eat them all, possibly throwing some out? Or resentment, knowing that the task of making use of them would fall on me?

Or was it something else?

I realized that the idea of having too much food in the house makes me uncomfortable.

To me, a refrigerator shouldn't be too full. It needs room to breathe.

Aside from pantry staples, I prefer having just enough for the week and restocking when things start to look a little sparse.

This goes back to my childhood, like a lot of things.

Opening the family fridge overwhelmed me. It was stuffed beyond its capacity.

It wasn't unusual to find a package of miso-marinated salmon buried under eggplants and daikon radishes, concealed beneath a box of fast food chicken wings.

Things were piled on top of each other, buried and forgotten, sometimes for weeks or months.

I remember times when my dad pushed its door hard to make everything fit.

Eventually, my parents had two fully stocked refrigerators side by side, and another one in the garage, just in case.

Mind you, we weren't living in a food desert. We had access to multiple supermarkets, some open 24/7.

To say that my parents loved food is an understatement. There was no such thing as too much.

I usually ended up throwing out the food that had gone bad. Even as a kid, I felt bad about food being wasted.

And when I told my mom, she would casually say she forgot we still had it. It was no big deal.

But I also understand why my parents were like that.

They both grew up during the war, when there wasn't much to eat.

My mom used to talk about how rice was scarce, and how their family relied on potatoes and root vegetables to feed nine hungry kids.

I don't know all the details of my dad's experience, but I imagine it wasn't so different.

For my parents, food wasn't just about nourishment.

Having more than enough food meant that life was good. Everything was going to be okay.

As for me, I grew up surrounded by excess. Having too much food feels like a burden.

I still shudder when I remember the food spoiling in the fridge. We don't need more. Just enough is fine.

When I think about my husband's story, it's not so different from my parents'.

He was raised by a single father in an immigrant household, and they often scraped by. He remembers eating bananas with rice when that was all they had.

Nothing was wasted when his dad cooked. From the skin to the meat to the organs, bones and cartilage to the feet and the fat. Everything was used.

When you grow up like that, every bit matters, and stretching food to last becomes important.

My husband doesn't turn down food when it's offered. He brings home leftovers when we eat out. He sometimes buys vegetables and other food items in large quantities so we don't run out.

And he eats everything. There's almost no food he doesn't like.

To him, food is meant to be savored and enjoyed. It keeps us healthy and well, something to be grateful for.

And truthfully, seeing him eat happily makes me smile too.

After twenty-five years together, I don't expect my husband to be like me.

But understanding how we grew up has changed the way I see things. What feels like too much to me feels like comfort to him.

We're both responding to something older than the food itself. The memories, the emotions, the lives we've lived.

I might always feel a little nervous when he brings home a big bag of something.

But it'll be okay. We'll make it work.

About the Author

Koko Kawasaki writes quiet, reflective essays about memory, identity, and the idea of "enough" in everyday life. Her talkative cat, Tofu, eats what he needs, leaves the rest, and returns later for snacks.