My adopted mother—my real mom, as I always called her—always loved fresh herbs. We had an entire fridge drawer devoted to them. You could always find bundles wrapped in damp paper towels to keep them fresh and protect them from wilting. On the windowsill, sprigs of dill or parsley stood upright in tiny glass vases she’d once bought for decoration, ready to be sprinkled over a breakfast omelette or tucked beside a tender pork loin. She taught me to rub the flat leaves of mint or basil between my fingers and inhale, noting the differences between them by scent alone.
But children can be ferociously stubborn about food, and we were no exception. My sister’s vegetarianism and my own refusal to try anything “weird” left her saffron rice, mushroom risotto, and shrimp linguine with fresh parsley largely unappreciated. The palette she tried to cultivate within us never took root—at least, not then.
Hunger has many faces. Mine turned darker during my final year of high school, when the pressure to fit into the perfect prom dress overtook me. Restricting what I ate became the only area of my life where I felt completely in control. I could tell you the calorie count of everything—down to a stick of gum. Butter felt sinful. Too rich. Too indulgent. Just the taste of it on my tongue made my stomach twist with fear.
The first time I ate without counting calories in my head was during a dinner a friend organized in university. He had lived in the same dorm as me and, as a queer Jew, had taught me so much about the worlds he lived between. The dinner was to celebrate Pesach—Passover. He’d made homemade pita bread, a yogurt dip seasoned with za’atar, and a richly spiced shakshuka. I remember the colorful headpiece he wore and the beautiful patterned pants as he circled the table, placing each dish down with a flourish to our childlike amazement. I had never heard of most of the foods, but I didn’t hesitate. I tore off a piece of pita, dipped it into the steaming red eggy stew, broke the yolk, and ate it whole. No one said a word as we scraped the plates clean.
Later, a kind-hearted boy helped me continue this journey of rediscovery—without even realizing it. He was an exchange student from South Korea, and we often ate together because we both hated eating alone. He introduced me to the spicy, rich broth of soft tofu soup—soondubu jjigae—and the crispy bite of mandu, Korean dumplings. We laughed over a bubbling hot pot, dropping in thick cubes of jiggling tofu and chewy udon noodles, sipping cold Asahi beers. With him, I learned to enjoy food again—not with conditions or expectations, but with joy.
A year later, I graduated in May 2017 and, by July, had packed my life into two suitcases and moved to Prague. I missed my family, my community, and my roots. The hearty, unfamiliar dishes of Czech cuisine offered little comfort. Then, one chilly autumn day, my flatmate mentioned a Chinese spot nearby that supposedly had the best dumplings in the city. Curious, I went—and ordered the beef-braised noodle soup.
The bowl arrived with beads of fat floating like pearls on the surface, thick slices of beef nestled around a crimson swirl of chili oil. Beneath the fresh cilantro, slowly wilting in the steam, were thick, luscious noodles. The moment I brought them to my lips, I was transported. Suddenly, I was five years old again, home from kindergarten in suburban Chicago, missing my mom and dad while they worked. My nanny—a Chinese woman married to a Northwestern student—was placing a bowl of soup in front of me, comforting me, reminding me that my parents would be home soon. I remembered she had cooked for me often, but even now, I couldn’t name a single dish. Had I ignored Chinese food all this time as a quiet rebellion against my ancestral background?
Now, at thirty, my kitchen pantry is a reflection of the places I’ve been and the parts of myself I’ve reclaimed. My spice drawer bursts with five spice (a blend of star anise, fennel, Szechuan peppercorns, cloves, and cinnamon), crispy garlic chili oil, dried rosemary and basil, sesame oil, za’atar, and gochujang. Each one plays a role in the way I cook—fusing flavors, traditions, and memories into something entirely my own.
Salt, Fat, Acid, Heat by Samin Nosrat changed how I approach food. I learned that an over-salted soup could be balanced with a squeeze of lemon. That a spicy-salty sauce could be deepened with a pinch of sugar. That flavor is balance—and so is life.
Just a few weeks ago, on a Croatian island, I wandered paths lined with wild rosemary growing in thick brambles. The sharp stalks of fennel and the soft green of sage peeked out from between the stones. Every morning, I picked herbs on my way to the beach, stuffing them into fresh fish from the local market. I sliced thick rounds of eggplant and slathered them in a miso-butter glaze. My salads were dressed with sesame oil and topped with toasted black and white sesame seeds. We grilled the fish with generous amounts of butter and olive oil pressed from trees just up the hill.
“Cooking brings me such a sense of peace and calm,” I told a new friend I’d made on the island.
She smiled and looked at me thoughtfully.
“That’s why your food tastes so good,” she said. “It’s made with love.”