Let's Dance In The Kitchen
Come over, try this.
This summer smelled like the sour-sweet scent of grapefruit, freshly peeled by my father.
He complains, sending me a playful glare as he dramatically shakes his hand in the air—Look, I have a cut on my hand, and yet I am peeling this for you. I nudge him and laugh: That little paper cut? Looks like someone’s getting weak.
He smacks me with his “injured” hand and continues carefully peeling off the rind, then slowly taking off the white skin, mumbling something about how the skin made the fruit sour to the taste. I watch this gentle ritual, quickly snapping a photo to capture the memory.
My firm allowed everyone to work the last two weeks of August remotely, so I went back home to Southern California, that small oasis of palm trees and dust. Mom called me the day before I flew back, chattering away into the receiver as she listed out potential dinners on the menu—I told her anything is great, and she tutted disapprovingly at my lack of specificity. Upon hearing the frown on her face, I settled on stir fried pork and kimchi, though I know that everything she makes is perfect (even if it has too many vegetables).
I stood outside of the airport, shielding my eyes with my hand—the S. California heat is very humbling, and I ended up taking shelter under the thin shadow of a sign. My parents arrived, running out of the car to greet me. We head home.
The food is already done and the table is set when I step through the door, onto the beige carpet. It always is. I learn that Mom stood over the pan in 90 degree weather for an hour because the stove was broken and kept shutting off, doubling the preparation time. I look at her with big emotion and she waves dismissively: My daughter wants food so I make it. Time is nothing. So I bow my head over the bowl and eat with no complaints. As expected, the meal is better than anything I’ve gotten in San Francisco.
What I’ve learned recently is that home is where the heart is, and love is in the kitchen. It’s already been said before, but there’s a special kind of intimacy in making something for someone.
But this is a new revelation to me—in fact, most of my life was spent a safe six feet away from the kitchen counter. I didn’t even make instant ramen until I entered college, shrieking when I tossed the noodles into the boiling water as I was afraid of getting burned. I used to bake pretty often until I accidentally pre-heated the oven once and forgot to take the stuff out from inside, melting eight plastic containers and spending four hours scrubbing madly at the metal. The truth is that I was embarrassed to be in the kitchen—clumsy, unsure, and inexperienced. I was also legitimately afraid of accidentally poisoning my guests…seriously.
I’m far from being a cook, but I’ve come a long way. A dirty hojicha, coffee cake, or a small dinner of pork belly and lettuce wraps is my simple way of saying I love you. I want you to eat well. Enjoy. I want you to feel at home here.
The concept of the kitchen as a space of pure affection stems from the years of watching my mother in the kitchen, the movements of her arms similar to that of a symphony, weaving the sounds of pots and pans into the air. She cuts green onions, garlic, other vegetables with a steady beat: chak chak chak. That small rectangle of space is her dance floor as she opens cabinets and drawers with muscle memory, seasoning things until “they taste good”. If she notices that I am there, she asks if I want a taste and blows on the spoon exactly three times. There is a rhythm to everything.
Perhaps cooking, making things is a dance in itself. This morning, I baked brownies and made a blueberry matcha latte while playing jazz on the speaker, doing a twirl here and there and knocking the wooden spatula against the bowl like a drum. The sound of the espresso machine running is similar to that of a deep bass, rumbling on the metal shelf. The kettle is rattling on the stove, and the oven dings when it’s finished pre-heating. The blueberry syrup is good, it’s the perfect balance of sweet and tart.
I can’t wait for you to come back home.
