Seasoned by Love

la (Firs

call felt like stand

of cloves and cardamom curling up into the air like old memories. My mom's favorite spiced te

morning that shou

it w

thing was abo

n the street-all of it felt like background noise to something I couldn't name. The light coming through

ed around the kit

emon I scrubbed it with. The crooked clock above the fridge, still ticking five minutes too fast. The co

ng it from the

dding down the hallway, the slight shuffle that always

ed in her robe, her scarf already pinned into place,

ently. Her eyes found the bowl in front

ice?" she asked,

eyes on the oven. "

t the edge of the counter. "It sm

ing a hand to the co

It was the kind that filled up a room like

d rising like it carried the weight

Mom," I final

w," sh

culinary genius and I forget everything the moment I wal

e. "You've been creating magic in kitchens

a little

uitive. You taste with your soul. That's not something any sc

on't want to d

oftened. "

st. It doesn't

w you know

p in my throat build. "Do yo

back of my heart-quietly, but ever pre

ember when you made your first soufflé which did not deflate,

urned. "I

hing out to squeeze my sh

ven b

the face-warm, spiced, nostalgic. The loaf had risen

ack. My mom tore a small piece f

she said with a

ear slipped out anyway.

red. "That's all I have l

my tongue-soft, sweet, comforting.

very minute taste

we

plan. We didn't pa

lantain hash. We brewed tea and stood over the stove like we used to, bumpi

e fought playfully over how much salt to add to the soup. She corrected my folding tec

rs, tim

n't ru

avor

ith reheated leftovers in mismatched bowls. The TV played an old Korean d

ed lightly on

t came through,"

he full itinerary. I

s knew you'd go. I just didn

ket tighter around

silence

something?

yth

ow fancy the kitchen gets... don'

ty bowls. At the photo o

t," I w

st was a photo of us in the kitchen from years ago. I was maybe thirteen, face covered in f

at moment

st the start o

as a l

ed wit