Some people find clarity in meditation. I found mine with a bottle of Jack Daniels and sushi patrons I wasn’t ready for.

When asked about my sushi origin story, I always start with the part where I summoned the chutzpah to cater a sushi party even though I had never seen, much less tasted, sushi before. Despite having no access to a nearby sushi bar or the ingredients listed in Japanese cookbooks, I refused to surrender to the challenge. Instead, I armed myself with curiosity, determination, and two non-negotiable rules that formed what felt like a formidable battle plan.

Rule Number One: No raw fish. No one was going to die under my watch.
Rule Number Two: Add a Southern spin—because bless our hearts, there isn’t much that cream cheese or something fried can’t fix.

Somehow, I managed to pull it off. The client praised the creativity of the sushi, sushi unlike anything they’d had before. The final menu included an eclectic mix of cucumber rolls, overly seared tuna (refer to Rule Number One), crawfish with cream cheese and tempura asparagus (Rule Number Two), and a pickled okra roll, a mix of my Southern roots and a nod to the Japanese tradition of using pickled vegetables.

What was meant to be a one-time event sparked something deeper. It started a blaze of creativity in the kitchen and a growing reputation for Southern-style sushi. Diners from nearby towns began reserving tables for something they couldn’t find anywhere else.

Now that’s the part I usually tell. The shiny version where I emerge like an unlikely but victorious anime heroine. But the real turning point? That came later.

I always looked forward to sushi nights, but nothing excited me more than a call I received for a special reservation. A client would be driving in with a group of automotive industry businessmen they needed to impress. I was excited and I was ready. I had prepped what I felt was my most creative sushi menu yet.

When the cars lined up in front of the restaurant, I stood confidently behind the counter. As the group of sharply dressed men stepped out, I froze. They entered quietly, bowing politely. Their host greeted me enthusiastically and confirmed what I had desperately hoped wasn’t true:

They had just arrived from Japan.

A stream of panicked thoughts and colorful curses raced through my mind. My confidence evaporated. My hands shook. I reached for a bottle of Jack Daniels and slipped into the bathroom, locking the door behind me.

The weight of what I was about to attempt hit me so hard it knocked me to my knees. Tears came fast. Doubt screamed in my ears: What were you thinking? No way you’ll pull this off. Then, somehow, through the noise, a quieter voice rose up: You’ve made it this far. Don’t stop now.

After a few swigs of whiskey, I dabbed at my mascara-streaked face, steadied my breath, and stared into the mirror.
“Just get through this,” I whispered to my reflection. “And you’ll never play sushi chef again.” It was a promise I had every intention of keeping.

I held my breath as the first platter went out. I expected laughter. Or worse. Maybe they’d just leave.
Instead, there was silence.

Click. Click. The only sound came from the cameras strapped around their necks. They ate stoically. Then… they ordered more. And more. As platter after platter went out, I felt the panic lift. Gratitude flooded in. They weren’t just tolerating my take on sushi, they were embracing it.

As they left, each one bowed deeply and smiled. And something inside me shifted. I wasn’t afraid of making sushi. I just didn’t want to hide behind a curtain of doubt ever again. That night, I wasn’t just making “Marisa-maki.” I wasn’t just playing chef. I was stepping into something real.

And that night taught me that even in chaos, there’s clarity. You can find a spark of purpose even in doubt. Becoming a sushi chef wasn’t simply a new goal. It was the start of a journey that would push me, shape me, and define me in ways I couldn’t yet imagine.

Originally published in Dear Sensei
”Whiskey, Wasabi, and a Lesson in Courage”  January, 2025