A Taste of Home

There I sat on my sofa, finishing the last of my work, still running on the sandwich I’d grabbed from the café hours earlier. My nose stayed buried in my laptop—tabs opened, tasks checked and rechecked—as if something might slip through if I looked away even for a second. Lately, life has started to feel like a broken record—familiar, repetitive, and impossible to turn off.

I checked the time. Nearly two hours of sitting in the same spot. My leg ached, numb and sharp all at once. Then my stomach gave a small, unceremonious grumble.

I should probably eat something. Maybe takeout?

It would have been the third time that week. Not because I loved it, but because it asked nothing of me—no pause, no presence—and right now, I claimed to be too busy for anything else. Somewhere along the way, I’d tricked myself into believing that I couldn’t truly feel satisfied; that my plate would remain full no matter how much I bit off. Responsibilities called my name nonstop, each one expecting I’d be there, and I answered every time.

Even when I could have closed the laptop, even when the work was done, there was always a low voice in the back of my mind insisting that something was missing—that stopping meant falling behind. And I believed it, without ever really knowing why.

I stretch my limbs, yawning, as I think of what I should do for dinner. I suddenly glance at the fridge, focusing for a second before my eyes glimpse over the small kitchen island. Then, a sudden—yet slightly unfamiliar—idea came to me.

Maybe I should…cook something.

I knew how to cook. I’d always enjoyed it. Though, these days, I never felt like I had the time. I bought groceries, let them sit, and took forever to turn them into anything real. For the time I’ve just been living off of whatever I could grab that didn’t require much of my effort. But tonight felt a little different. I wanted to change things a bit.

I closed my laptop, rose from the sofa, and walked into the kitchen. For a moment, I stood there, staring at the fridge, unsure of where to begin.

What to cook, what to cook…Oh. What about pepper meat stew and rice? Just like Mom used to make.

The thought alone stirred nostalgia and something heavier. Mother was a master in the kitchen, and I’d learned to cook every one of her dishes, but nothing—I mean nothing—ever came close to her pepper meat stew. The memory made my mouth water, carrying me back to being younger, devouring spoonful after spoonful without a second thought.

It had been a long time since I’d eaten it. Longer than I liked to admit.

I pull my hair back and roll up my sleeves. I walk a few steps to the side, the light above the stove humming awake as if it recognized me. The fridge door opened with a soft pull, releasing the gentle chill and the quiet order of shelves I’d stocked but rarely used.

I reached in without overthinking it—peppers first, then a package of meat tucked behind the spinach. Onion. Garlic. Oil.

Each item landed on the counter with intention and purpose. I rinsed, sliced, and set things aside the way I remember, the knife finding its steady rhythm against the cutting board. The scent of crushed garlic bloomed in the air—sharp and alive—and something deep in my chest loosened with it.

For the first time all day, I wasn’t measuring minutes. I was simply here, building a meal from memory and instinct, letting it become something beautiful before it ever touched the plate.

I began to glide, like a fairy learning to trust her wings for the first time.

Ginger and paprika—yes—and cumin. Time to make the rice.

It was all rushing in, the feeling I thought was long gone. The delectable smell was already stirring, the fresh ingredients greeted my nostrils with grace and elegance, finally happy to be home, and I welcomed them back gladly.

I love this feeling. I feel…free.

A little bit of this, and some of that.

The creativity had no end. My movements became fluid, as if I was relearning a sacred dance I had once known by heart. Tomato paste, black pepper. It's all coming back to me.

This was my peace. This was my freedom. This was my escape.

This was why I bought those new books and brand new shoes—because I had thoughts and desires beyond what the world demanded of me. I wasn’t born to live in constant tension. I was born to enjoy the beauties of life.

The smell gets stronger and more delightful, filling the room and whispering promises of a delectable meal. I skip around, knowing my taste buds would soon be rewarded.

As the stew simmered, I put on my favorite song and let myself move. I danced through the living room, found my rhythm in the beat, lip-syncing without thinking. For once, I wasn’t measuring my life by what I could give away, but by what I could happily own—my joy.

I snacked on an apple while I waited, stirring the pot now and then, humming to myself as if this rhythm had always belonged to me. Feet tapping. Stew bubbling. The kitchen—warm with something more than just heat.

When everything was ready, I pulled a plate from the cupboard and served myself. Stew and rice, measured just enough to meet each other without tipping the balance. I filled a glass with water, carried it all to the table, and sat down.

Wow. I actually did it. Great job.

I stare at my plate for a moment, admiring the delicious art in front of me. I let the plate cool for a moment, then reach for my spoon.

I took the first bite and in that moment I was instantly wrapped in the feeling of a warm embrace. The meat melted perfectly on my tongue, flavors bursting extravagantly. I breathed in deeply through my nose and rested my forehead against my palm, letting the taste carry me sweetly.

Just like Mom’s.

Without even realizing it, a single tear fell down my cheek. I gently wiped it away with a smile and continued to eat. Each bite, better than the last.

By the time I finished, I leaned back with a long sigh. I stare up at the ceiling, proud of my accomplishment. Right now, I had nothing to prove, nothing to show for. No apologizing. No rushing. Just stillness.

I just sat there peacefully for a moment.

A long, content moment.

With nothing more than a soul at ease, a satisfied belly, and an empty plate.