Taste of Home

About: This is a short story revolving around a young girl’s life as she reminisces about the memories of her once-united home through cooking.

I remember my parents by the way they cooked. It’s strange—most people would recall voices, faces, or gestures. For me, it’s the smell of sesame oil and garlic simmering in a pan, the sizzle of meat hitting a hot grill, or the sound of potatoes boiling too long until the water runs dry. Those were the things that filled the spaces between my parents before they decided to live apart.

My mom’s cooking was soft and delicate, like her. She made dishes that felt like comfort: doenjang-jjigae with chunks of tofu, sweet braised potatoes, and seaweed soup every birthday without fail. Her cooking was patient—hours spent stirring a bubbling pot or marinating beef overnight for bulgogi. There was always ginger in her fridge, sitting on the middle shelf next to a jar of fermented soybean paste that smelled stronger every time you opened it. She believed in balance: salty, sweet, bitter, and spicy, all in their proper places, like the way she’d pat my hair after school and remind me to be polite no matter what happened during the day. When I sat at her kitchen table, the warmth of her cooking wrapped around me like a blanket. It was the kind of food that made you feel like you could stay home forever.

My dad, on the other hand, liked things fast and fiery. His specialty was dakgalbi, spicy stir-fried chicken, which he threw together without a recipe. Red pepper paste coated everything: the chicken, the vegetables, even the tongs he used to flip them in the pan. He was the kind of cook who didn’t measure anything but always knew when something was off. His meals were loud—the crackle of oil, the clang of metal chopsticks, and his humming as he worked. He loved garlic, sometimes too much, and I remember laughing as he’d bite into a raw clove, daring me to do the same. I never did. He didn’t care much for presentation—food was supposed to be eaten, not admired. Eating with him was always an event, like a firework bursting open, chaotic but thrilling.

After the separation, they stopped cooking the way they used to. Mom’s meals grew quieter, her soups lighter, almost like she didn’t want them to linger too long in the air. Dad started ordering takeout more often, the plastic containers piling up in his fridge. But when I visit them—one weekend here, the next one there—they both still make time to cook for me. Mom will press a bowl of steaming rice into my hands and say, “Eat slowly; take your time.” Dad will hand me a pair of metal tongs and grin, “Flip it quick, or it’ll burn.”

It’s different now, but the smells remain: the nutty aroma of sesame, the sharp sting of chili paste, the sweetness of honey drizzling over rice cakes. These are the pieces of them I carry with me, stitched together like patches on an old quilt. They remind me of the home we had, even if it exists only in fragments now, spread across two kitchens.