The First Time

The warm crunchiness of peanut and curry, the acidity of fermented mustard green, the contrast between soft and crispy noodles, the rich, fragrant chicken. As she closed her eyes she remembered the small farming village in Lampang, Thailand when she first had this dish, kao soi. A myriad of other senses began to flood her memory: the warm monsoon air, the smells of the chicken coop, the soft beating of distant rain.

She opened her eyes and looked up at the man standing in front of her. His freckled long fingers gripped the steaming bowl, his hazel eyes met her. He shyly mumbled, “Happy Birthday,” and kissed her. She knew he would be good for her. With little direction and much initiative, he had criss-crossed the city to gather the foreign ingredients. He’d listened to her stories so carefully that he could recreate the flavors. It was, she knew, love. [150]

by Gabi Esser