It is strange how I forget names, but not the taste of something I haven’t eaten in 30 years. A fried egg dish with herbs, a soft bread with sugar on top shaped into a triangle, or that one pork dish only my mom knew how to make. It is like my tongue remembers what my brain lets go of.
Back then, I didn’t care about recipes. I just ate. Now I wish I had asked more questions esp my mom. But maybe that’s what memory is for to fill the kitchen with people who aren’t here, to stir the air with scents that don’t exist anymore.
I try to recreate them now. It’s never quite right. But close enough to smile. Close enough to feel full in a different way.
