After spending some time looking for something to translate, I still couldn’t find anything suitable. So I’ll translate an old suggestion from one of the readers, "Isekai Omotenashi Gohan" (light novel version of it). As in previous cases, I will not include any illustrations; still, the first two books are pretty easy to find around the web to see the illustrations.
For those visiting this site for the first time, there are settings at the top of the page. Specifically, there's a “fancy level” option that highlights characters in a different color. If you don't like it, you can turn it off.
Volume One, Prologue: Big Sister and the Wobbly Fresh-Egg Pudding
A fresh egg, just gathered from the chicken coop this morning. I gave it a tap! against the rim of the metal bowl, cracking it open. At once, the clear, slippery egg white and the plump, brilliant orange yolk began to dance at the bottom of the bowl. The glossy yolk and the perfectly clear white, lit up under the fluorescent lights, seemed to declare “We’re fresh!” all on their own—and seeing that somehow made me happy.
I kept going, cracking eggs one after another—tap, tap, tap!—and when I glanced over, I noticed the boy beside me staring intently at my hands, mouth hanging half open. I couldn’t help but laugh.
…Is this his first time watching someone crack an egg?
Noticing me laughing, he seemed to realize what kind of face he’d been making, and his cheeks colored slightly as he hurried to compose himself.
“Want to try cracking one?”
“N-No. I’d only get in the way…”
He turned down my offer, but I could catch little flickers of curiosity in his eyes. He really did want to try. His fingers had been twitching restlessly for a while now.
“Nobles don’t cook, do they?”
“No. Meals are generally prepared by a dedicated cook at the estate.”
“I thought so. Then this is a first for you.”
I smiled brightly and forcibly pushed the bowl of eggs and the whisk into his hands.
Huh? Huh?—utterly confused, he kept glancing between the bowl and me. I gave his shoulder a light pat, put on a smile—surely a rather wicked-looking one, knowing me—and mimed a mixing motion with my hand.
“These eggs were just laid this morning, so they won’t blend easily. Mix them carefully, okay? How well this turns out depends entirely on you.”
At my words, he went pale, stared down at the bowl for a moment, then took up the whisk and began stirring with fierce concentration. The clatter of the whisk against the bowl mixed with the clinking of his metal armor, and the narrow kitchen filled with noise all at once.
I took milk from the refrigerator and measured it out on the kitchen scale, then set vanilla beans ready on a small plate. For a moment I considered adding fresh cream, but decided against it. I wanted to keep today’s batch as simple as possible.
I pulled sugar from the cupboard and carefully measured out separate portions for the caramel and for the custard itself using the scale.
Glancing over, his eggs looked sufficiently mixed, so I began adding the sugar in little by little. The pure white granulated sugar dissolved smoothly into the orange egg mixture with a soft rustling sound. I had him tilt the bowl while he carefully whisked everything together.
Meanwhile, I put milk, vanilla beans, and the scraped-out pods into a small pot and lit the stove. I kept the flame low, careful never to let it overheat—checking with a thermometer to make sure it stayed under sixty degrees. If it got too warm, it would curdle the eggs when mixed in.
…It was only after getting this far that I realized I should have made the caramel first. …Dang it.
—If the custard base finishes before the caramel, I won’t be able to pour it into the cups!
Honestly, I was panicking a little inside, but it felt too embarrassing to let him notice, so I calmly prepared a new pot as if nothing were wrong. I set the pot on the neighboring burner and added a little sugar and water. I turned the heat up slightly higher on this one, letting it caramelize until it reached a good color.
“Wow. That smells sweet and wonderful.”
Surprisingly enough, he seemed to have a sweet tooth—his cheeks stayed relaxed the whole time. His honey-colored eyes watched the little pot of caramel sauce happily.
Sneaking glances at that handsome face of his, I pumped my fist internally at what a lucky situation this was. This was basically like having unlimited front-row access to an idol in real life. How wonderful!
Once the sugar shifted from an amber, hard-candy color to a proper deep caramel shade, I pulled it from the heat and set it on a dampened cloth. Then I carefully poured in a little water.
Fwoosh! The moisture sputtered violently in the pot. I was a little afraid that some hot caramel might splash, but I stirred it with a spoon anyway. And with that, the caramel sauce was done.
I poured it evenly into the pudding cups I’d set out earlier. The moment it touched the cold cups, the caramel instantly hardened. But by the time the pudding was finished, it would melt back into liquid, so there was no need to worry.
Once I had poured caramel into every cup, everything was ready. …Now I could finally pour in the custard base.
…That was close. Good thing I caught it in time. A pudding without caramel isn’t pudding at all. Well, I’m no professional confectioner. …Mixing up the order sometimes just happens!
I consoled myself as I stared wistfully into the distance.
Now, at last, it was time to finish the custard base.
Into the eggs he’d been diligently whisking, I added the heated milk little by little. The egg’s yellow blended with the milk, turning a beautiful cream color.
Once I confirmed the sugar had fully dissolved, I set out a tea strainer and a fresh bowl.
I asked him to pour the custard base from his bowl through it.
He swallowed hard, then, looking intensely serious, carefully poured the custard through the strainer. Once he finished, he let out a long breath.—Had he been holding it in the whole time?
…I wouldn’t have been mad even if he’d spilled a little, you know?
Watching him tackle the cooking with such a serious expression somehow reminded me of a boy from my elementary school cooking class. He’d thrown himself into unfamiliar cooking with the same fierce focus. Incidentally, that boy was my first love. Ah, nostalgic.
…My thoughts wandered off track there.
Then I made him go through the same procedure another three times, despite the fact that straining the mixture just once had already been quite a task for him.
It’s a tedious step, but it’s essential for a smooth, silky texture.
Once the custard base had turned nice and velvety, I poured it into the pudding cups and lined them up in the steamer. I set the steamer over the pot with steam rising thickly from it and put on the lid.
—Alright, done!
Feeling a refreshing sense of accomplishment, I turned around to find him smiling contentedly too.
“About fifteen minutes like this should do it.”
“And then it’s finished?”
“—Yes. Though it’s better chilled in the refrigerator once it’s steamed. It’ll be ready in time for tea today.”
I set the timer and washed the used bowls, whisk, and pots with a splash.
By the time I’d finished tidying everything up, the time was almost up.
The timer beeped to let me know, and, mindful of the steam, I gently opened the steamer. Inside sat a neat row of set puddings.
—Good. No air pockets either. It looks like they have turned out well.
I stuck in a toothpick to confirm the custard had set firmly—and with that, the fresh-egg pudding was complete.
It was hot, so I put on mitts to take the puddings out.
Every time my hand holding a pudding moved, tiny ripples trembled across its surface. I liked firm, substantial pudding too, but this degree of wobbliness was my favorite. This one would surely melt silkily on my tongue.
Relieved that it had turned out well, I let out an involuntary sigh. Seems I’d been tense the whole time without even realizing it. A pleasant kind of fatigue spread through my body.
I checked the clock—half past ten.
Even if we had tea first, I would still have plenty of time to make lunch.
I set the kettle on the stove and lit the burner, pulled tea leaves from the cupboard, and readied the teapot. Two teacups.
Before I knew it, he’d settled into a chair, relaxing.
I decided to sit too while waiting for the water to boil, and let my eyes wander absently around the room.
There it was—the familiar, cramped kitchen.
A dented stainless-steel sink with that distinct Shōwa-era feel. The old, poorly-fitted sliding door connecting the living room and kitchen. The flickering fluorescent light long overdue for replacement.
At the worn dining table sat the black-haired, gold-eyed knight in his gleaming silver armor, gazing happily at the pudding as it cooled. Outside the window, numerous soldiers carrying large spears made their rounds at regular intervals, their brisk marching calls of "Left, right! Left, right!" carrying through the air.
Beyond the familiar assortment of cherry, plum, and persimmon trees around the house, and the dilapidated, now-unused doghouse, stood a towering, sturdy pure-white wall. And beyond that, a magnificent castle.
By now, it had all become a familiar sight.
…No comments, please.
Because even if someone pointed out the absurdity of it all, I wouldn’t know how to answer.
Anyway, this wasn’t Japan.
I repeat: not Japan.
So, some foreign country then? No, that was not it either. It was another world.
According to my little sister, we’d apparently experienced one of those trendy "isekai" transportations. This old Japanese house, my little sister, me, and our one pet dog. We’d been summoned to another world, house and all—and now, for some reason, I was making pudding.
◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇
“Big Siiiiister!”
My little sister’s normally adorable face was scrunched up in a full-on ugly cry.
Tears kept spilling one after another from her big eyes, and no matter how many times I wiped them with a handkerchief, they showed no sign of stopping. On top of that, her nose was running too, an utterly undignified display for a sixteen-year-old girl.
While rubbing my sister’s back, I glanced over at the prince standing a little behind us, looking thoroughly at a loss. Blond hair, blue eyes—a handsome man who looked like he’d walked straight out of a storybook. This was Cain, Second Prince of this kingdom, the Kingdom of Gilberta.
His remarkably well-formed face usually wore a fairly princely, refreshing smile, at least in the short time I’d known him—but right now, all I could see on it was exhaustion and resignation.
When our eyes met, Prince Cain silently shook his head side to side. He’d probably tried everything he could think of to calm my sister down. But it had been too much for him, and he’d finally brought her to me.
I let out a small sigh, careful not to let my sister—still sniffling in my arms—notice. I know exactly what to do when this perpetually spoiled little sister of mine is in a mood. The magic words that work on her without fail. I whispered them softly into her ear:
“I’ll make you pudding for tomorrow’s snack, so will you cheer up for me?”
“Sniff… really!?”
…See? The crying child was smiling again already.
Seeing her big tear-soaked eyes go round and her cheeks relax into a happy grin, I couldn’t help laughing and thinking, Oh, what am I going to do with you?
I was a little relieved to see she was still exactly the same as ever, squeezing my waist tight with excitement over getting to eat her favorite pudding. Then, somehow, I found myself looking up at the sky.
Just moments ago, my chest had been full of real, directionless anxiety. But most of that had been blown away by my sister’s happy face.
I stroked her fluffy chestnut hair as I gazed upward.
The sun would set soon. The sky was dyed a deep amber by the sinking sun, breathtakingly beautiful. A large, faintly visible moon watched quietly over the two of us as we held each other.
◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇
Takanashi Akane. Twenty-four years old. Until quite recently, I’d been working while raising my little sister, eight years my junior. Compared to friends my own age, I suppose I had it a bit rougher, though not unbearably so. Just an ordinary woman, really.
My younger sister Hiyori had started high school and could now help out around the house, and with no parents to rely on, the two of us had somehow managed to get by together, day by day.
Our parents died in an accident six years ago. I was eighteen; my sister was ten. I was in my third year of high school, already accepted into university, with nothing left to do but graduate.
When our parents died, I was at a complete loss over what to do with my sister and our dog—but thankfully, our grandparents were still alive, and we were able to move in with them out in the countryside. I gave up on going to university and, relying on a relative’s connections, took a job as an office worker at a small company.
From then on, I desperately looked after our elderly grandparents and my sister, who was right in the middle of adolescence, while working a job I wasn’t accustomed to.
Our grandparents’ place in the countryside was truly rural—the kind of spot where you couldn’t get anywhere without a car.
At first, my sister was stunned that there wasn’t even a convenience store nearby, but she ended up unexpectedly attached to the chickens we kept behind the house, quickly made friends with the local troublemaker kids, and threw herself wholeheartedly into experiences she never could have had in the city—fishing in the river, hunting for bugs in the mountains. As proof, she spent every day running around outside, and as a child she was always tanned dark brown.
As for me, while maybe not quite as much as my sister, I came to love the countryside life too. And the reason for that was, of course, thanks to our grandparents.
My grandmother had started to grow a bit forgetful, but whenever she was preserving food or making local dishes, her mind would sharpen right up, and I spent my days learning all sorts of things from her. My grandfather doted on us too, planting all kinds of vegetables and fruit trees for our sake, and harvesting them together each year was always something to look forward to.
I think, in the end, the slow pace and the air of the countryside simply suited me. Even looking back now, my memories from that time are full of happiness—happy enough that it held up well even compared to when our parents were still alive. At the very least, I was so busy experiencing and learning new things that I barely had time to grieve over losing my parents… the days just flew by.
I think part of the reason our grandparents taught me so much was out of a quiet, thoughtful wish for things to turn out that way for me.
Even after our grandparents passed away, one after another, two years ago, we kept living in the house with permission from the uncle who inherited it. On the low wages of a high-school-graduate office worker, whether or not we had to pay rent was a matter of survival for the two of us. I wanted to save our parents’ insurance money as much as possible for my sister’s future education. So I was truly grateful to our uncle for so generously letting us keep using our grandparents’ house.
Through all of that, one way or another, our life had settled into a steady rhythm, and I’d been vaguely thinking that this quiet existence—just the two sisters and our dog out in the sticks—would probably continue for a while, at least until one of us got married… or so I thought.
The turning point for us sisters came on Christmas Eve. We were cozied up under the kotatsu, full from a hot pot dinner, about to dig into the Bûche de Noël my sister had proudly bought from a bakery famous for its long lines. Just as she stuck the knife into the cake—
The scenery in front of us suddenly seemed to warp, and the next moment, I felt a floating sensation, like being in free fall, followed instantly by a deafening roar unlike anything I’d ever heard, as the entire house shook violently.
Thinking it must be a massive earthquake, we rushed outside exactly as we were, carrying our pet dachshund in our arms. Waiting for us outside were several suspicious-looking middle-aged men in robes and a sparkling prince—none other than Prince Cain.
I froze the moment I saw these unfamiliar figures who’d suddenly appeared before us. On top of that, my sister and Prince Cain stood there staring at each other without moving an inch; the robed men were scrambling around in a panic, and our dachshund Leon hid behind my legs, growling menacingly at the strange people in front of us. It was, to put it mildly, complete chaos.
Looking back now, it really was an extremely irregular situation, and it seems they were just as confused as we were.
To cut to the conclusion: this was what’s known as another world, and it seemed our house had been summoned here along with us. What’s more, my sister apparently held some special position called a "Saint," while I was just an ordinary bystander who’d been dragged along for the ride.
The fact that my sister was the Saint was something we learned after the most self-important-looking of the robed men muttered some kind of incantation over us to investigate.
The unfamiliar word “Saint” had gotten my sister incredibly excited, but I couldn’t process what was happening and simply stood there frozen.
After that, they said they wanted to explain things in more detail, so we ended up moving to another location. Above all, wanting to grasp the situation, we obediently followed along behind the prince. Looking back on it now, meekly following a total stranger like that seems recklessly careless. But at the time, we simply didn’t have the composure for anything else—we were far too overwhelmed and confused.
The illustration’s description: the sisters are beside their house and looking at the castle in the distance.
It turned out our house had been summoned right in the middle of a sprawling garden inside the castle grounds. The flower beds and hedges all around the house were beautifully maintained, with a light dusting of snow covering them. Once spring was in full swing, this whole area must have become a magnificent sight, filled with gorgeous blooming flowers.
After walking for a while, we passed a place lined with numerous thick white columns covered in intricate carvings. It looked so much like a Roman temple that I found myself wondering what on earth it was doing here. We entered a large white building while I glanced at them out of the corner of my eye, and inside was a corridor decorated with golden ornamentation and vivid murals, exactly like something out of a European castle. What was more, every single person we passed was dressed like a character from a fantasy movie. Some even bowed deeply and respectfully to us with expressions of apparent awe. With my brain already struggling to process everything that was happening, I simply bowed back to them on pure reflex.
And finally, we arrived at the king’s audience chamber… a room apparently meant for nobles to have audiences with the king. Honestly… it was luxurious! Magnificent! Those were about the only words a commoner like me could think of.
Squinting so our eyes wouldn’t be blinded by all the glitter, we sat in excessively ornate chairs and drank tea served by actual maids while the king explained why we’d been summoned.
—According to the king, this world went through a cycle every several centuries in which miasma erupts in massive quantities. This force could corrupt living beings and transform them into monsters, or render land uninhabitable. Left unchecked, it could spell the end of humanity. Which is why a Saint needs to be summoned to purify it.
The king went on at length explaining, with all sorts of complicated details, why the miasma accumulates in the first place—but, honestly, I don’t remember any of it. Sorry. Talk of magical power and monsters and all that fantasy stuff just doesn’t stick when you have zero frame of reference for it. My game-loving sister, on the other hand, was nodding along happily, clearly enjoying every word.
Anyway, their tradition was to call upon a Saint from another world whenever it was necessary to purify the miasma. Once her work was done, they would send her back to her original world—or, if she preferred, she could stay in this world. And if she chose to go back, they would return her to the exact moment when she had been summoned. So, essentially, we’d be returned to Christmas Eve as if none of this had happened.
Hearing that put me at ease. For one horrible second, the thought of never being able to go back had crossed my mind, and I’d panicked inwardly. There was so much I still had to deal with back home. My sister was still in school, and there was work to think about, but more than anything, there was the house. It belonged to our uncle—he’d be shocked if it suddenly vanished.
I went ahead and asked the king why our whole house had been dragged along with us. He explained at length, but to summarize: when they tried to summon the Saint, everything nearby got caught up in it too.
…I don’t know how to put it, but summoning an entire house—that’s pretty bold, isn’t it, another world?
Once the explanation wrapped up, my sister’s cheeks flushed with excitement. "A Saint…! My time has finally come…!" she said, thrilled.
Unlike my carefree sister, my own heart was filled with anxiety.
A Saint… purifying miasma… what exactly would she be made to do? Could it be dangerous? I couldn’t stop worrying about her. But ignoring my concern entirely, my sister sprang to her feet, grabbed Prince Cain’s hand, and declared, "Alright! Let’s go…! This is the start of the Saint legend…!"—and swept right out of that lavish room in an instant. I could only stare blankly at her retreating back, exchanging a look with the equally stunned king.
“Um… please take good care of my sister…?”
Not really understanding what was happening, I bowed my head to the king anyway, as her guardian. He looked at me, gave a wry chuckle, and nodded cheerfully. "You can leave everything to us.”
My sister, it seemed, would now begin her training as the Saint. As the Saint’s sister, I’d apparently be treated as a state guest. The king had a room prepared for me right away in a detached palace within the castle grounds, and assigned me a guard knight and a maid to attend to me.
About a month had passed since then.
Ever since arriving in this other world, I had nothing to do but lounge around all day, wander the garden, or struggle through reading books—and I spent my days desperately, desperately wishing I could go home.
I understood the reasoning—they couldn’t risk anything happening to a close family member of their precious Saint—but living a life where I couldn’t leave the detached palace, except for the occasional trip back to tend the house, wore on me mentally quite a bit.
I’d spent my whole life working hard to support my sister, and suddenly being told I had nothing to do left me restless, unable to sit still.
Some side effect of being summoned to another world meant I could speak the language fine, but I couldn’t read the writing, so even reading was a struggle. I had to learn while reading with the maid’s help, so I could barely make any progress, and it wore me out. And of course, there was no way they’d let a state guest help with cleaning. The maid suggested embroidery as a way to pass the time—apparently a proper noblewoman’s hobby—but there was no way I could manage that either.
Our dog, meanwhile, was an absolute hit with the maid and thoroughly enjoying life in this other world. It’d definitely put on weight since we got here… and dachshunds really shouldn’t get fat. Honestly.
Through all that, the one thing that gave me any comfort was our house—the one still standing right in the middle of that vast castle garden—whenever I got to go back and tend to it occasionally. Cleaning it was an absolute joy. I treasured the Japanese books we had at home. That month had taught me just how far boredom alone can push a person to the edge.
My sister, on the other hand, seemed to have a difficult time every day.
I did get to see her occasionally, busy as she was. At first she’d been full of energy, saying she’d purify the miasma quickly and get us home! But day by day she seemed to lose her spark, growing visibly more worn down.
According to her, she had numerous scholars assigned to teach her how to purify miasma, along with training in using magical power. She wasn’t allowed to tell me the specifics, so I only ever got vague impressions of it.
But it sounded genuinely brutal. My sister, who was never exactly the diligent, hardworking type to begin with, was being put through Spartan instruction by her teachers. Learning to handle unfamiliar magical power on top of it… My sister, who’d always had a naturally carefree, sunny personality, seemed more dejected every time I saw her.
Of course, I did what I could to support her as her big sister, telling her not to push herself too hard, listening to her complaints.
And it seems she finally reached her limit.
Which brings us right back to that earlier scene of her bursting into tears. That’s the whole story.
“Big Sister, I can’t take it anymore!”
“What’s wrong, Hiyori?”
My sister had suddenly called me out to the gazebo near our house, in the castle’s inner garden, and I found myself utterly bewildered, faced with her tears.
By then, evening had already begun to settle in, the sky dyed a beautiful amber. Clouds tinted pale purple drifted slowly across the sky on the breeze.
My sister loosened the arms she’d been squeezing tightly around me and looked up at me with tearful eyes. Seeing her face up close for the first time in a while, she looked even more worn down than before. Life in this other world, unfamiliar as it was, must have really been taking a toll on her.
…As her sister, I wanted to do something—anything—to help.
“Are you sick of studying to be the Saint?”
She shook her head firmly, denying it.
“The studying and the magic training are hard, but… purification is something only I can do, so I’ll keep trying, but…! There’s just one thing I can’t stand.”
“What is it?”
“The food…”
“The food?”
“I don’t want the castle’s food! I want your pudding, and your cooking! I can’t stand living without that. I just can’t!!!”
The instant my sister said that—
The air around us froze solid.
Even Prince Cain, caught completely off guard, stood there wide-eyed and frozen.
Oh, my little sister.
Of all the things—that was the reason?
Now that I thought about it, my sister really had always loved my home cooking to an almost absurd degree.
…Ah, honestly. What a sweet, silly little sister I have.
This time I let out a big sigh without caring whether she heard it, then ruffled her hair into a mess. I heard her pathetic little yelp of protest, but I couldn’t care less.
—And with that, I made up my mind. …Well, really, I had no choice but to.
“Alright. Leave it to your big sister.”
…And that was how it came to be. To keep my sister’s spirits up, making pudding every day and cooking her meals—that was my job now.
It was such a small thing, really.
But it was a wonderful feeling, having something I could actually do.
Now then, what should I make? Humming to myself, I flipped through the recipes in my head.
Today too, under this other world’s sky, in the kitchen of our worn-out old Japanese house, I would put my cooking skills to work for my sister once more.
