Essay excerpt:
Home is the rich aroma of freshly ground coffee with cardamom greeting me every morning like the sun on my face or the warmth of my mother’s hug. A plate of eggs, fruit, or oatmeal that fills me up enough to tackle whatever the day might bring. In my house, food has always been my dad’s love language, but it wasn’t until I moved away that I truly realized how every single cup of coffee or meal he made for me was him pouring out his love in words that could not be spoken. When I used to tell my parents about the plans I had with friends, the only question my dad would ask me was if I would be home for dinner. “Have you eaten? Are you hungry? Can I make you anything?” was just the same as “I love you.”
Stepping through the door of my first apartment in the city of Philadelphia, the ache of home ebbs and flows and I find myself missing the stillness and comfort of my family around me. While the distance may only be a short train ride away, I feel as far from my home and my childhood as if I were across the country.
I enter my kitchen, and am instantly reminded of my dad’s love for cooking and the lessons he taught me from when I was barely tall enough to see over the counter. “Heat the pan on high for a moment and then lower the heat, always cook on medium or low heat.” I adjust the silver stainless steel pan perched on top of the metal burner and turn down the dial of my gas stove after hearing the satisfying click of the lit burner. With one hand pouring a generous swirl of olive oil into the pan and the other twirling the pan gently to spread the oil evenly, I recall my Dad’s quiet voice instructing me on what to do next. “Add the onions first and let them cook with the garlic and olive oil to give the most flavor.” I begin dicing a pearl white onion alongside a few cloves of garlic and add them together to the pan. That familiar smell wafts around my head and the soft sizzle I’ve heard more times than I could count touches my ears. I can almost hear the sizzling of the metal pan as my dad shakes its contents, a skill I admire but have never been able to master. In my memory, the diced vegetables gracefully arc and drop, arc and drop, turning their uncooked sides against the heat of the pan and revealing their lightly bronzed faces. A dash of salt, a sprinkle of parsley and maybe a hint of paprika? In my opinion, the more flavors the better as I’m sure my dad would agree. I reach for the cutting board full of chopped vegetables and toss them in with the onions and garlic. A rainbow begins to form of red peppers, orange carrots, and green celery. “Cover them with a lid and wait for them to soften ever so slightly.” I place the lid over the top of the pan and watch as the steam begins to billow and cloud, blocking my vision of what’s underneath. Moving on to the chicken I had previously coated in a Greek yogurt and herb marinade, I began cooking the small chunks in a separate pan, turning them every so often to ensure every side was fully cooked. Without a strict recipe in mind, I decided on trying my hand at a coconut curry chicken, a dish I had never made before but felt confident enough in my abilities to pull off. Going with the flow of the flavors was how I learned about food growing up as I watched my dad create symphonies of tastes and textures that poured from his heart, not so much a list of steps. “There is soul in what I make,” he would tell me as I perched on the counter so I was almost eye level with him. “If you don’t get it right the first time, keep trying until you do.”
Now that I’ve moved away from the house I grew up in, I’ve found a solace and connection to home in learning to cook for myself. Buying produce, testing new flavors, and crafting my own ideas about food through trial and error along with the patient instructions from my dad, has allowed me to fully fall in love with cooking. I now understand my father’s culinary passion and true creativity that comes with it. It turned out that being able to learn a new skill that brought me peace in the midst of the chaos of work and classes was exactly the space I had longed for growing up. While my home in Willow Grove may feel small and insignificant, it is the lessons I’ve learned from my parents and their love and support that truly brings life to my memory of home. Each time I saute onions and garlic in olive oil, or throw a new ingredient in the pan out of pure curiosity, I feel the warmth of my kitchen at home that makes me feel closer to my parents than ever before.