Smells Like Home

On The Third Floor of our family home, with three generations split into five families under the
same roof, the beautiful aroma of my mom’s cooking rises over the scene of the street markets
below. My family means the world.

Busy with work in another city, I rarely see my parents. I never resent them for that. When my
parents come home, my mom cooks the yummiest dishes. The sweet smell of seafood is in the
air, lingering on my nose as I do my math homework. I hear the TV in the background, and
turning my head, I see Mom in her colorful flower pajamas grabbing ingredients. My heart fills
with innocent joy.

Mom asks me, “How was school?” Eager to tell her about my mini-quests, I know I will get in
trouble. In the moment, the fun was worth all the scorning.

{Being a delinquent is not easy. I’m known to be the troublemaker in the neighborhood, but just
enough. I am getting in the right amount of trouble without going overboard. My teacher
regularly hits me in the tooshie with a ruler for disrupting class or not doing my homework
correctly. Or buying crickets and hermits after school for them to do these unethical “battles.”}

An hour passes by, and it’s almost time for dinner!

In harmony, the broth and my homework finish at the same time. After summering for an hour, I
see beautiful and vibrant colors arise. My eyes shed a tear at the sight of such a perfect meal. The
noodles are cooked to perfection, not overcooked, where it becomes like jelly. Rice noodles
should have a slight bounce to them if cooked well. Finally, the Hu Tieu is ready! Shrimp, beef,
quail eggs, squid, and fried tofu on a nice bed of noodles swimming in the broth. Salivation.

{Thanks Mom}
 {The three of us: Mom, Dad, and Me. Mom sells miscellaneous stuff on the first floor of our
house but sometimes travels. I’m a pretty good salesman. Dad drives a taxi from the North to the
South and back around. He brings home cool toys! Me, nothing but a tanned Southeastern Asian
kid.}
We’re all sitting on the floor, eating on a propped-up table as the steam comes from our hot
bowls of deliciousness. I cannot wait to taste the broth!

{You can tell a person’s love for cooking by the effort put into the base of the dish. Of any soup,
the broth is the most significant part.}

Taking the first sip, where am I? The broth coats every tastebud, dancing on my tongue. Its
sweetness comes from the shrimp swimming for an hour in the pot. With a good chew, the
noodles combine with the soup and shrimp for a delightful bite. Sweet, savory, and full of flavor.
I look over the table, and Mom has a smile on her face after I take another massive bite. Joy.

New Place, With The Same Taste of home, as six years had passed, and moved to Sacramento,
California. My family lived in a two-bedroom rented house on the South side of Sacramento.
Some time has passed by. I was in the fourth grade at the time. Away from our grandma, my
Mom rekindled her knowledge of cooking different foods. She loved trying new dishes.

{I love trying the new recipes she learns. Even though this is her first time cooking it, the taste is
immaculate. The next time she makes it, better than the last. I swear I am not biased; I know
good from bad food.}

After school, I would walk home in the beating sun. Sometimes, I would stop to get shaved ice
cream and elotes from the vendors. I loved trying cuisines of all sorts. I was a big kid, not in
length but in width.

{On a hot day in the Sacramento sun, a sweet and cold caramel mocha shaved ice will save your
life! LIFE SAVING! I get them from the change my parents collect over time.}
After getting home and doing homework, I would go outside and ride my bike around. The joy
of having the cool air hit my face as I bike down the street to hang out with friends. We would
play outside until the sun went down, filling the sky with a blooming orange. Bruised and
battered, sometimes with a little bloody wound, the long day ends. It is dinner time!

I biked home after the fun and saw that my dad had already picked up my mom from work.
Walking through the door was forever a joy. What was that smell? What meal was I blessed
with? The steamy smell of rice from the kitchen, then I heard a beep, indicating it was ready. At
that moment, excitement filled my body. The aroma was yet again perfect. I felt such innocent
joy.

{On the main course, I help my mom peel the hard-boiled eggs for the Cá Kho. While
caramelizing the sugar, a dark color emerges. That is the base for the meal, where the catfish will
cook and render the sauce down. Before completion, we add the hard-boiled eggs to coat in the
sauce. So sweet and savory. There is a taste like no other: I am home}

We all sat on the floor, just as before, but with the addition of my baby brother, Aaron. Born with
a full bed of hair, this kid just spawned in my life. I was complete. Everyone had their bowls of
steaming rice, including my baby brother. The clay was in the middle of the table. The sauce
doused the fish and eggs perfectly, giving it a light brown color.

Before taking apart the tender catfish and eggs, I tried the sauce. With such rich flavors, this was
the perfect mix of savory, sweet, and salty. I would eat the rice alone with the sauce as a meal. It
was that good. Cá Kho and rice will always hold a special place in my heart. With a section of
the fish meat and skin, I combined it on my plate with some rice.

The home was where food filled the air, foods from our childhoods.

College Was Bland, not because of the experience but because there were no warm and hearty
meals. I realize that this is a new chapter in my life. A warm home-cooked meal is not feasible
every day. I eat to get full rather than to satiate my tastebuds.
 {Eating a homemade meal is more than satisfying hunger; it is about unity after a long day.
Everyone sits in the same area, eating the same meal. We then talk about our days amid the
chews. Or days where it is acceptable to silence, still in the comfort of those around}

Occupying the kitchen table by myself, I eat. The noise of a single spoon and bowl working
together as I scape the last of my ground beef and rice with taco seasoning. I hate the silence
while eating dinner.

I can feel the emptiness fill up the thoughts inside this room. My senses miss the smells of home.
Mom would never make this bland ass meal. How does she make such fulfilling meals after
working 10-hour days? She is a strong woman.

Gulping down my bland meal, I begin to miss my Mom’s Bò Lúc Lắc: A beef stirfry consisting
of carrots, bell papers, onions, and small beef cubes. This meal is quick and easy, good for the
soul.

{After blanching the bell peppers, dunk them into a hot wok with diced garlic until a thick aroma
steams up. Shortly after, add in some thickly sliced onions. After it became firm, out came the
veggies, and in came the beef cubes. Marinated by a sweet, peppery, and savory sauce, the smell
is breathtaking. Mixing it, the Bò Lúc Lắc is now complete. Served with a steaming bowl of rice
was where all the existential crises of the world shut down for a while}

Life did not feel as joyous.

Searching For a New Scent was difficult at times. Missing the intimate interactions I would
have with my family during dinner times, I had to find my smell of home. For some time, I had
always loved the simplicity of a meal. Finding that love in other cultures allowed me to connect
with my peers.
Having met new friends, I had the opportunity to try foods I’d only seen online. Meals made
from vegetables I can’t say, processes I have no patience for, and smells I could never imagine.
These different scents and tastes all originated from a home.

Although every component of cuisine is unique, they are all also similar. Something made from
the same ingredients, but depending on the process, can be a completely different meal. For
someone out there, there are comfort foods they have known since childhood. It reminds them of
home.

{Sharing these a meal with my friends allows me to connect with their dearest memories. “I grew
up eating Xiā Jiǎo when our family went to Dim Sum,” or “Eating Torta de Carne Asada is my
guilty comfort food.” A meal can activate all five of your nerves: Sight to see the beautifully
crafted meal, smell to whiff up the aromas, taste to melt all the flavors together and touch to feel
the warmth.}

“Mom” on my Caller ID as my phone screams the default ringtone. Due to a complication with
moving, I have not been home for a while. The usual call with Mom involved me paying her
online bills or translating paperwork. I answer the phone.

Me: “How are Aaron and Rohani doing in school?”

Mom: “Aaron is as silly as always, and Rohani is doing great. Her teacher says she is doing well.
They talk about you all the time.”
Me: “I miss them a lot.”
Mom: “You should come and visit. If you’re craving anything, I’ll cook it for you.Phở, Bò Lúc
Lắc, Bánh Xèo, Bún bò Huế.”
Me: “That sounds so good.”

{These meals symbolize my childhood. The deliciousness in the simplicity is what I identify as
home. I miss her cooking and being with the family. That is what sharing a meal is about.}
These conversations make me miss home but help me push through with school. Our talk
reminds me of how my Mom always astonishes me with her willingness to learn and perfect
meals. Mom follows Vietnamese dishes online, and once perfected, she makes them her own.
Being the taste tester, I have a lot of responsibilities. Sitting here and waiting for your mom to
cook is a daunting task. My stomach is grumbling, and the feelings are jumping: The food is
ready.

Excitement fills the air as I remember the cooking being as delicious as ever. There is always a
smile on my face when I am eating a home-cooked meal. Rushing memories of my childhood
overwhelm me. Is this what happiness is?

{I want to learn my mom’s recipes. In these past years, I cooked and baked as a hobby. Adding
the signature of home dishes is all I need. Cooking off feel rather than measurements is my level
of aspiration. Season until the ancestors tell you it's just right.}

A Mother’s Cooking will always have a special place. The bonds made and the joy surrounding
food. There were days when I would be in the kitchen helping my mom prep for dinner. Those
were beyond some of the best times of my life.

{Those were beyond some of the best times of my life. I am grateful to have experienced this
growing up. Not a moment goes by without me being thankful for it.}

Sharing a home-cooked meal with someone is intimate. It is vulnerability and welcomeness

bundled in a moment. Enjoying a meal in itself makes a great icebreaker. Why do people think
dates happen at places that advertise food?

I would walk around during dinner time for fun, often wondering what kind of meals people
were having. The smell of many different cuisines tells stories that I may never hear. Experiences
that are unique to their own, only by the individual.

Scents that told me that could be what home smells like for them.
In Our Family we do not say “I love you.”. I never heard those words come from my parents'
mouths growing up, but I didn't think or feel otherwise. I knew they would go to the ends of the
earth for me.

In our family we share a meal and take in each other's company. These actions speak louder than
a million words. That is how our family is. We can indirectly appreciate each other. That's why
we don’t say, “I love you.”

My mom and dad’s sacrifices have said endless words that do not need to be. For that, I am
forever grateful.

{I love you, Mom. You make it smell like home.}