Noodles, Nostalgia & Giving My Taste Buds Grace

Noodles, Nostalgia & Giving My Taste Buds Grace

When I moved to Japan, I didn’t just leave home, I left my comfort flavours.

The spices I understand. The food I don’t need translated. The meals that feel like muscle memory.

So yes, I’ve been homesick. Intensely. Missing food from home in a way that feels almost irrational until you realise food is language, and suddenly you’re illiterate.

What makes this entire experience ironic is that I am not naturally adventurous with food. If it doesn’t look like something I recognise, my first instinct is to interrogate it. Cautiously. So imagine being an African girl in Japan, where noodles are not a side character but a main event.

At some point someone asked me, “Why do you post noodles all the time?”

They said ramen. I heard noodles. And that misunderstanding alone tells you how unprepared I was for this journey.

Because ramen isn’t “just noodles.” It’s a philosophy.

The first thing I noticed is that ramen announces itself through smell before taste. Each bowl carries its own identity, its own intention. And once I stopped comparing it to home food, I started tasting it properly.

Shoyu ramen was my introduction. The broth is soy sauce–based, clear but deeply savoury, with a salty edge that lingers without overwhelming. It tastes clean, slightly sweet, and familiar enough to feel safe. The aroma comes from soy, garlic, and often chicken stock, gentle, welcoming. This is the ramen you recommend to someone who says, “I’m not sure.”

Then came miso ramen, and this one felt deliberate. Made from fermented soybean paste, the broth is thicker, earthier, almost nutty. There’s a quiet sweetness to it, balanced by salt and umami. It feels heavy in a good way, like it wants to stay with you. This ramen reminded me of slow-cooked food back home, where flavour doesn’t rush.

Tonkotsu ramen was the moment I realised ramen does not apologise.

The broth is made by boiling pork bones for hours until they release collagen, creating a creamy, almost milky texture. The taste is rich, fatty, unapologetic. This is not a casual bowl. This is commitment. The smell alone tells you this ramen has depth and history.

Then there’s shio ramen, which surprised me the most. Salt-based, light, almost transparent. No heavy seasoning, no distraction. The flavour comes from balance, seafood stock, chicken, subtle aromatics. It’s quiet but confident. You don’t eat this ramen for excitement; you eat it for clarity.

Tsukemen changed how I thought ramen should be eaten. The noodles are thick, chewy, served separately from a concentrated broth. You dip each bite, controlling how intense the flavour gets. It’s interactive. Intentional. It forces you to slow down and pay attention.

And yes, instant ramen deserves a mention. In Japan, instant doesn’t mean careless. The seasoning packets are thoughtful, the noodles intentional. Add an egg, vegetables, maybe leftover meat, and suddenly you’re participating in the culture, not surviving it.

What ramen taught me is this: food doesn’t need to replace home to be meaningful. It just needs to be understood on its own terms.

Through Taste Jam, Ebe and I have been intentionally tasting our way through different spaces, not just eating, but paying attention. Rating, questioning, sharing where to go, what to try, and how to recreate things in our own kitchens.

Ramen became a classroom. A conversation. A reminder that unfamiliar doesn’t mean unwelcoming.

I still miss home food. That hasn’t changed. But now I know that curiosity is also a form of survival. And sometimes, growth tastes like broth you never thought you’d enjoy.