Grandma's Kitchen in a Bowl

When I eat noodles with ginger, I am eight years old again.

My grandmother's kitchen smells of garlic and warm steam.

She sings while she cooks, and her old pot makes a soft sound.

Now I live in a big city with many bright shops.

The food here is good, but it never tastes like home.

Last night I cooked her soup in my small kitchen.

The first spoonful was too salty, so I added more water.

Then the smell filled the room, and I smiled for a long time.

Taste is a quiet door, and it opens the past.