I try to make your mom’s recipe for pasta, the one you taught me step by step, but it tastes wrong. I added too much garlic, just like you always teased I would. You’d stand behind me, hands on my hips, guiding my spoon, saying “slow down, chef.” The kitchen feels too big without your laughter, the clatter of your favorite pan. I take a bite, and it’s not terrible, but it’s not yours. Some recipes aren’t just about food—they’re about the people who taught us to make them.
I try to make your mom’s recipe for pasta, the one you taught me step by step, but it tastes wrong. I added too much garlic, just like you always teased I would. You’d stand behind me, hands on my hips, guiding my spoon, saying “slow down, chef.” The kitchen feels too big without your laughter, the clatter of your favorite pan. I take a bite, and it’s not terrible, but it’s not yours. Some recipes aren’t just about food—they’re about the people who taught us to make them.