One rainy afternoon in June, I was eight and sitting at my grandmother’s kitchen table, legs swinging, watching her sauté and in her old pan. The heavy scent of lemon grass filled the room, sharp and bright, as she added slices of and a handful of sweet mulberries she plucked from the garden. When she was almost finished, she would always the dish with a few pieces of and a squeeze of . Her quiet hands made everything look easy, even a for the neighbor, tying the with a twist of skill that seemed impossible to learn. Sometimes, my uncle would come in carrying or a basket of , and there would be laughter when someone guessed the juiciest one.
一个六月雨天的下午，我八岁，坐在奶奶的厨房餐桌旁，双腿晃荡着，看着她在旧锅里翻炒羽衣甘蓝和香茅。 浓郁的香茅味弥漫在房间里，清新而明亮，她接着放进几片番石榴和一把从花园里摘来的甜桑葚。 快做好时，她总会用几块枇杷和挤一点百香果汁来装饰这道菜。 她那双安静的手让一切看起来都那么轻松，就连给邻居包装一个文旦，系丝带的技巧都那么娴熟，仿佛永远学不会。 有时，我叔叔会提着菠萝蜜或一篮红毛丹进来，当有人猜中哪个最甜时，大家就会笑起来。
Now, years have passed and I find myself in a very different kitchen. My job is not about food at all—it’s meetings, accounts, and the strange speed of each at my office. But sometimes, at night, I buy kale and fresh lemon grass from the market. I sauté them, just as she did, and stand by the stove with the window cracked open, letting the smell remind me of her voice. I can’t find mulberries here, or loquat, but sometimes I use passion fruit or a of pomelo, and it still feels almost right.
如今，岁月流逝，我发现自己身处一个截然不同的厨房。 我的工作与食物毫不相关——是会议、公积金账户，以及我办公室里每个融资轮次的诡异节奏。 但有时，在夜晚，我会从市场买来羽衣甘蓝和新鲜的香茅。 我像她一样翻炒它们，站在炉边，窗户半开着，让香味勾起我对她声音的回忆。 我在这里找不到桑葚，也找不到枇杷，但有时我会用百香果或几瓣文旦，感觉依然很接近。
At a weekend dinner, my friend—a , of all things—brought a wine that tasted just a little bit like guava and jackfruit. We laughed about it, and I told him about my grandmother’s garden and her skill at making even simple food taste full of memory. As I garnish my plate, I realize how much of her still lives in these small rituals, even if everything else around me has changed.
一个周末晚餐时，我的朋友——竟然是个侍酒师——带来了一款尝起来有点像番石榴和菠萝蜜的酒。 我们对此哈哈大笑，我跟他讲起我奶奶的花园，以及她让即使是简单的食物也充满回忆的烹饪技巧。 当我装饰我的盘子时，我意识到，即使我周围的一切都变了，她依然有多少活在这些小小的仪式里。
