My childhood kitchen sounded of the Cantonese morning newscast crackling through our tinny, analogue-tuning radio player. It smelled of whole wheat toast with a thin layer of margarine or a bowl of Kellogg’s Raisin Bran with skim milk. On the best mornings, it smelled of the nutty, smoky Nescafé instant coffee that always left me dumbfounded my father would drink something so bitter and intense. There was also the smell of my mother’s ‘healthy’ blueberry muffins we helped bake, made with whole wheat flour and at least one-third cup reduction of sugar.

At the time of writing, a March afternoon, my kitchen smells of rehydrated shiitake mushrooms braised in tamari sauce and the leftover soaking liquid. There are even better moments: the deeply aromatic scent of pho broth simmering calmly on a winter’s afternoon, a pan of comforting apple cobbler or the wafts of plain jasmine rice pleasantly awakening my palate as I dish up everyone’s portion for dinner. Those days when the kids pour handfuls of chocolate chips into our banana bread batter or there is a small pot of bubbling applesauce on the stove. The mild, sweet scent of bread dough rising in the cling-wrapped glass mixing bowl, or that of garlic and onion sizzling in sesame oil. In the summers, I slide open the screen door countless times and call everyone to come in to eat japchae or sushi — two dishes our children love all year round, but are especially cherished in the relentless Saskatchewan heat.

Some days I want to capture these sensations of baking and cooking, pocket them safely, and take them with me when I leave the face of this earth: The decadent caramelization of twice-baked Japanese sweet potato; the sight of my children’s soft pudgy hands dropping marshmallows into their homemade hot chocolate’s. The squeals of delight when mac n’ cheese comes out of the oven, and there’s the first bite of a not-too sweet matcha brownie.

As I reflect on my childhood memories in the kitchen and consider the meals I’m making for my own family, I wonder what memories my children will harbour; what sights or smells will ignite merriment or a pang of nostalgia and wistfulness. I want them to remember the joy of baking and cooking, of eating healthily and heartily, the importance of fasting and feasting, “also that everyone should eat and drink and take pleasure in all his toil—this is God’s gift to man.”¹

¹ Eccelsiastes 3:13 ESV

This is a personal writing exercise heavily inspired by Nigel Slater’s short essay, “The scent of a kitchen”, from his book A Thousand Feasts. I wanted to practice writing in first-person, present tense; to study and mimic Slater’s cadence and thought direction, to attempt capturing the beauty and tenderness in making meals. Not to mention, I also wanted to jot down these precious memories on to the page before they fade with time.