My wife is simmering a pot of gentle soybean paste soup.
She carefully cleans the river snails—what we called little shells back in my village—and drops them into the broth with a pinch of seasoning and a handful of fresh chives.
As the steam rises from the bowl, the fragrance reaches me before the taste ever does.
It is the scent of my mother’s cooking from my childhood.
I find myself wondering if this bowl will hold that same timeless resonance.
Within that single sip, so many memories are submerged.
The earthy warmth of a mother’s touch.
The days of bathing in the village stream, our skin drying under the afternoon sun.
The fresh, crisp fragrance of wild greens gathered from the spring soil.
All of it remains alive within the depth of that bowl.
This season always brings to mind shepherd’s purse soup.
Wild greens brought home in simple bags, often still carrying the dust of the fields.
They were tedious to clean, yet mother would chop them rhythmically on the board and boil them in a large pot.
When the hot broth coated the palate, it held the abundance of our hometown.
Perhaps this is what a memory of taste truly is.
A flavor that refuses to change, no matter how much time passes.
The first flavor we are ever given is our mother’s milk.
It is the very first thing we taste upon entering this world.
That warm, sweet essence on the tip of a tiny tongue.
Perhaps from that moment, we were destined to be beings who search for love.
Throughout our lives, we wander in search of affection.
We seek someone to look our way, to acknowledge our existence.
We walk this path hoping to be seen as someone precious.
We set out on a journey to find that love.
Life, after all, is a journey in search of love.
In that sense, flavor is inseparable from the heart.
At its visceral root lies a mother’s devotion.
This is the foundation of my memory of taste.
Today, I continue my journey.
I travel as a pilgrim seeking those warm, sincere flavors.
What heart is hidden in the snail soup my wife has prepared today?
Will I find that old memory again within its depths?
The taste born from a mother's touch—does it reside here?
The soup prepared by the one I love is surely the finest meal, even if it lacks the artificial seasonings of the past.
I am a traveler on the road of flavor.
A pilgrim wandering across this earth in search of a true meal.
I set out once more.
Following the path of love.
Following the path of taste.
We were honored by a lovely couple celebrating their 1,000th day of marriage.
Your presence brought a radiant light to our space.
May your lives always feel like a beautiful spring outing.
Memories of Taste / The Heart of Food / A Culinary Journey / Food and Humanism / Quiet Dedication