A 12-inch frying pan, half filled with refried beans, half with ground beef. Boneless, skinless chicken breasts fried up before and added back at the end to heat before serving.
Spaghetti noodles with “vodka sauce” (which I was disappointed to learn had no alcohol) and plenty of chorizo mixed in.
Egg flour soup — ordered from the local Chinese food delivery — spiced with paprika, cayenne, cumin, cinnamon, chili powder, chili paste, Sriracha, sambal, and black pepper just for good measure, with toast on the side.
These are foods that have been the tastes of home with different lovers, in different times. Tonight I find myself craving any of them, all of them, hungry for more than food alone.
And I find myself wondering what home tastes like when it’s just me, or if I’ll ever have the chance to discover…
I’m homesick for a home I’ve never had, and hungry for food and comfort and companionship.