It is zero degrees Celsius outside, and the toshikoshi soba broth is simmering on the hob. The word toshikoshi has always felt to me like a more nuanced expression of the new year than the abrupt division of the clock’s shift from 23:59 to 00:00. Its first character, toshi (年), means year, while koshi, the masu stem of the verb kosu (越す), means to cross a threshold, as one might traverse a mountain pass. Together, the compound describes the act of transitioning from one year into the next.

As for soba noodles, these are traditionally eaten on New Year’s Eve. Their meaning lies in both their physical qualities and historic uses. Firstly, soba breaks effortlessly, suggesting we cut away the year’s accumulated troubles rather than carry them forward. The noodles’ length then becomes a wish for longevity and good health. Furthermore, buckwheat’s ability to endure harsh conditions lends the dish a sense of resilience. Finally, buckwheat flour, having once been used by goldsmiths to gather fine particles of gold, adds a layer of financial prosperity.

Toshikoshi soba makes no grand promise—only a set of intentions, taken in through warmth, texture, and repetition at the year’s end. It brings me to a set of reflections on the year gone by, which I am sharing tonight through unlocked articles from the Tokyothèque archive: one for each month of 2025, alongside what I learned from each and how I intend to take that forward across the 2026 threshold. I hope they offer something useful for your own reflections, or, at the very least, some New Year’s Day reading. Let’s begin.