But the moment I tasted that soup — it hit me.
Suddenly I was 9 again. Sitting at my grandma’s table.
My feet didn’t touch the floor. The kitchen smelled like dill.
And everything felt safe. 🌿
There’s something magical about food from childhood.
A slice of bread with sugar.
Potatoes fried by mom.
Milk with a film on top (and you loved it anyway 😄)
It’s not just about taste — it’s a memory. A feeling. A hug.
Sometimes, when I feel lost… I cook those simple things.
Because they remind me who I am.
Where I come from.
And that I’ve been loved. 🥰
We all carry flavors in our heart, don’t we?
Some spicy. Some sweet. Some salty with tears. 💧
But they stay.
And somehow… they save us.
What’s your “taste of home”? 💛