I have a confession to make. I have a sock addiction. And more specifically, a tabi sock addiction.

It started innocently enough. One pair became two. Two became a small collection. And now, opening my sock drawer feels a bit like flipping through a travel journal of Japan, told entirely in patterns, colors, and split toes.

Tabi socks, with their distinctive separation of the big toe, are practical by design, originally meant for traditional footwear like geta and zori. But in Japan, practicality never excludes personality. Over time, tabi socks have evolved into canvases for creativity, seasonal motifs, regional humor, and quiet elegance. And somehow, I keep finding reasons to bring home “just one more pair.”

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It’s Fun Friday, and today I’m celebrating two small things on my desk that quietly set the tone for my day.

First up is my perpetual Totoro calendar. Solid, cheerful, and endlessly reusable, it sits there calmly marking the date with its little wooden blocks, completely unbothered by deadlines or meetings. There’s something deeply comforting about it. No flipping pages, no pressure. Just a gentle reminder of what day it is, delivered with Studio Ghibli charm. Totoro has a way of making even the most ordinary morning feel a little softer.

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Some people measure domestic happiness in flowers or love notes. I, apparently, measure it in how fast a pot of kinoko gohan disappears from my refrigerator.

And this all started because I was browsing JustOneCookbook.com again and finally tried their kinoko gohan recipe. I’m so happy I did, though I’m beginning to suspect the ripple effects are going to keep complicating my leftover planning for the foreseeable future. And yet here I am, a week later, marveling at how this humble mushroom rice keeps sabotaging my meticulously choreographed leftover strategy. I had plans for that next day bento. My husband, evidently, had other plans… namely, opening the fridge at odd hours and quietly “just having a little bowl,” a ritual that has left me with an increasingly abstract relationship to portion control.

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A few weeks ago I shared my excitement about finding Chocorooms at Costco, which felt like a tiny wink from Japan hiding in the middle of an American warehouse. I honestly assumed that would be the highlight of my snack discoveries for a while.

I was wrong.

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Whenever I travel between the US and Japan, I am reminded of how the same global brand can feel completely different depending on where you are. McDonald’s is the perfect example. In Japan, it is simply tastier. The food is fresher, the presentation is neater, and the Japan only items feel genuinely well executed instead of gimmicky.

Even though it is fast food, the Japanese sense of care shines through. The lettuce is crisp. The fries arrive actually hot. The burgers look intentionally assembled rather than rushed. And everything is seasoned with this magical just right balance that feels almost respectful.

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There are moments when living abroad makes you feel unexpectedly and delightfully five years old again. A few weekends ago, mine happened in the middle of Costco. I was cruising past the giant bags of chips and industrial sized Nutella when something made me stop so abruptly that the person behind me had to brake: Chocorooms. Actual, honest to goodness, mushroom shaped Japanese chocolate biscuits. In my American Costco.

As a Belgian, I should probably be ashamed to admit how excited I got. Belgian chocolate standards are a bit like Belgian traffic rules, strict, precise, and deeply ingrained. And let’s be honest, Chocorooms are not that kind of chocolate. They are not rich artisanal pralines with glossy shells and delicate ganache fillings. They are cheerful little snack mushrooms that taste like childhood and convenience stores and the promise of a long train ride with too many treats. And that is exactly why I love them.

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When people talk about Japan, they often mention tiny apartments, compact cars and neatly packed bento boxes. What they forget is that the same philosophy of compact perfection also applies to drinks. Exhibit A in today’s picture, a very serious three year aged umeshu in a bottle that is almost the same size as my apple.

In most countries, this amount of alcohol would be called a sample or a tasting. In Japan, it is a fully legitimate product with barcode, brand story and great pride. It is just… small. One elegant sip, maybe two if you are disciplined, and that is it. A complete experience in a tiny cup.

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