The bowl is hot in my hands. The spoon is metal. It scrapes the bottom. A good sound. A familiar sound. The broth is red. It is deep red. It is warm.
The smell comes up. Of chiles. Of meat cooked slow. Of cilantro. onion. Lime. It is a smell. It is a feeling. It is a time.
She made it. On Sundays. In the kitchen. The kitchen was full of steam. The glass on the windows was clouded. The scent filled the house. A safe scent. A constant one. I would stand in the doorway. Small. My face would feel the warmth from the pot. I would watch her. Her hands moved without thought. A quiet strength. The recipe was not a thing I ever knew. It was a secret she held in her hands. A language of flavor that was hers alone. She did not talk much when she worked. She just made things right.
Now, she is gone. The kitchen is not full of steam. The house is quiet. But the bowl is here. The flavor is here. It is the same flavor. It is her flavor.
Each spoonful is a memory. A moment. The warmth in the bowl is the warmth she gave. The quiet strength of the spice is her quiet strength.
This is what I love about it. It is a bridge. It brings her back. The taste is a language. And in that language, she is still here. It is the best thing.
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