Tasting Home

The scent of curry powder rose from the pot, warm and earthy, mixing with the sharpness of onions and garlic sizzling in the oil. As Leela stirred the mixture, she closed her eyes, letting the familiar crackle transport her. She wasn’t in her Brooklyn apartment anymore—she was back in her mother’s kitchen in Trinidad, standing on a wooden stool to see over the counter. Her hands moved automatically, mimicking movements she’d learned by watching her mother, who never measured anything.

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Cooking like this was muscle memory, something deep in her bones.

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Leela didn’t cook often, not the way her mother had. In their home, food was more than sustenance—it was a way to gather family, a link to their roots. But since leaving Trinidad for New York years ago, Leela had struggled to maintain those traditions. The city’s pace was relentless, and her life had become a blur of work and subway rides. Time, it seemed, had erased the small, simple joys.

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Her phone buzzed on the countertop, jolting her back to the present. It was a message from Janelle, her younger sister, reminding her of their weekly video call. Janelle still lived in Trinidad; in the same house they’d grown up in. Leela glanced at the time. She had promised herself she wouldn’t miss another call, but tonight, something felt different—something pulling her back to the island, even if only through the taste of food.

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As she finished cooking, her thoughts drifted to the day she had left home. The excitement of moving to the U.S. had masked the sadness of leaving. She had been young then, filled with hope that her new life would bring endless opportunities. And in some ways, it had. But there were parts of her that New York had never touched—the parts tied to the rhythm of steelpan music drifting through the streets, or the feel of the ocean breeze on her face.

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Leela sat by the window with her plate, staring out at the city lights. Brooklyn stretched in all directions, a patchwork of buildings and streets she had come to know well. Yet in moments like these, it still felt foreign. The last time she had been home, two years ago, the island had changed—just like she had—but the sea still smelled the same, and the familiar accents made her feel like she belonged.

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She took a bite, and the taste hit her with unexpected force. It was as if she were back in her mother’s kitchen again, a child, watching her family laugh and talk around the table. She could hear their voices, and see the warm light from the single overhead bulb flickering as the breeze blew in through the open window.

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Her mind flashed to her early days in New York when everything had felt overwhelming. The city had a way of swallowing you whole, making you feel small and invisible. She had gotten lost so many times—on the subway, in the streets, in conversations with strangers. People would ask where she was from, and she would hesitate. Trinidad was home, but how could she explain the feeling of being split between two worlds? How could she describe the quiet ache of wanting to belong to both places but feeling like she belonged to neither?

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A knock at the door startled her. She wasn’t expecting anyone. When she opened it, her neighbor, Mr. Thompson, stood in the hallway. He was an older man, retired, who lived alone in the apartment next door. His family visited sometimes, but mostly, Leela saw him reading by his window or taking his evening walks around the block.

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“I smelled something delicious,” he said with a grin. “Thought I’d come by and see what was cooking.”

Leela smiled, embarrassed by the attention. “It’s just curry chicken,” she said, but then added, “It’s a recipe from home.”

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“Ah, home,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. “Nothing like a good meal to take you back, is there?”

Leela nodded, feeling a sudden wave of emotion. She hadn’t expected to share this meal, but maybe that was the point. Her mother’s words echoed in her mind—food was meant to be shared, to bring people together. For too long, Leela had kept parts of herself locked away, trying to fit into a world that didn’t always make space for her.

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“Would you like some?” she asked, stepping aside to let him in.

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Mr. Thompson’s eyes lit up. “I’d love that.”

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They sat at the small table by the window, the city lights flickering in the distance as they ate. Leela listened to Mr. Thompson talk about his life, his family, and the changes he’d seen over the years. In return, she shared stories about Trinidad, her family, and the feeling of being caught between two worlds.

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By the time they finished, the sense of loneliness that had hung over her like a cloud had started to lift. She realized that home wasn’t just a place—it was the memories, the connections, and the people who shaped you. And maybe, just maybe, you could find pieces of it in the most unexpected places.

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As she washed the dishes later that night, Leela looked out the window once more. The city didn’t seem quite as foreign now. There were still parts of her that belonged to Trinidad, and there always would be. But there was also something new here—something she was starting to build for herself.

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She smiled, thinking of her mother’s kitchen, the way the spices danced in the air, and how, in the end, home wasn’t just a place you returned to. It was something you carried with you, wherever you went.