Flavors that anchor me to my roots
I stood in my kitchen, stirring a pot of chicken curry, the steam curling up like little ghosts. I like cooking — sometimes I even enjoy it. The sound of onions softening in butter and the warm smell of spices can make me feel steady for a while. But in my kitchen, it’s not just about filling plates. It’s about reaching back to moments I can’t get back to any other way.
The wooden spoon has to be the one my mother used, its handle worn smooth from years of her hands. The curry needs a pinch of cumin, just like she taught me, even if I can’t taste the difference anymore. If I skip a step — like browning the garlic first — I feel a pang, like I’ve let her down.
I always pick the same old pot, heavy and scratched from years back home. I rinse the lentils quick, even if the bag says they’re clean — I do it anyway, like my mom taught me. If the soup starts boiling too fast, I turn the heat down, not just for the taste, but because I need the calm — and because it reminds me of her gentle hands guiding mine.
In my kitchen, it’s not just about making food. It’s about finding something steady when life feels wild, and it’s about holding onto my family, even though I’m the eldest daughter living far away with my husband.