Fermenting Night, Sleepless Morning
The silence of the night mercilessly pulled me awake.
The clock’s hands pointed to one.
The last work email I sent yesterday—
How did the recipient feel?
Were they angry?
Disappointed?
Or did they just skim over it without much thought?
As I spiraled deeper into these thoughts, I noticed the time—three o’clock.
Should I just get up?
No, I should try to sleep again.
I closed my eyes, but sleep refused to come.
Reluctantly, I reached for the sleeping pill by my bedside.
As soon as I placed it in my mouth, something felt off.
Do I really need this?
I hesitated, then removed it with my fingers.
A faint bitterness lingered on my tongue.
That taste alone seemed to mark the end of the night.
Savoring the bitterness, I finally managed to sleep a little.
———
Morning arrived.
Dragging my sleep-deprived body, I lifted the lid of my nukadoko.
I started this fermented rice bran bed last summer.
When I reached in to mix it, the cool texture of the nuka felt soothing against my fingers.
Fermentation is an easy, accessible practice for anyone.
My favorites are carrots and turnips—
their firm crunch and tangy fermentation flavors are irresistible.
Cucumbers and daikon, on the other hand, turn out too watery.
When that happens, I add kelp.
It absorbs excess moisture while enriching the flavor—an unsung hero of the nukadoko.
Every day, I eat half a carrot, biting into it raw.
Surprisingly delicious, it’s satisfying enough to accompany a meal.
But—
Does it actually help me sleep?
I’ve heard that gut health is linked to better sleep,
yet my nights remain the same—wandering between wakefulness and slumber.
So today, I eat half a turnip.
Its mild sweetness spreads across my tongue.
In the fermenting nukadoko, the vegetables slowly mature, deepening in flavor with time.
And yet, when will my sleep ever be complete?
This cycle of waking in the middle of the night feels like an unfinished pickle—never quite reaching its perfect state.
Will time fix it, or is there something I must change?
Once again, fermentation continues.
Will my sleep, too, one day follow its rhythm?
