Morning sunlight slanted across the kitchen counter, catching the edge of my grandmother's old wooden cutting board. I'd pulled it out to prep carrots for a simple miso soup, and the moment I set it down, I remembered her hands moving across it—steady, practiced, never wasting a motion. The board has a faint curve worn into the center from decades of chopping. I ran my fingers over it before I started.

The carrots were fresh from the farmer's market, still cold and firm. I sliced them thin, trying to match her rhythm. The knife made that soft, repetitive thunk against the wood. I realized halfway through that I was cutting them too thick—she always said thin slices cook evenly and release their sweetness faster. So I paused, adjusted, and started again. The second batch looked better. Small mistakes, small corrections. That's how you learn.

While the dashi simmered, I opened the miso paste. The smell hit me first—earthy, fermented, familiar. It's the kind of scent that doesn't translate well in words, but it pulls you back to specific moments. I thought of winter mornings before school, when she'd ladle soup into a bowl and hand it to me without a word. The warmth in your hands before the warmth in your belly.

I whispered to myself as I stirred, "Not too much. Just enough to cloud the broth." Her voice, really. I added the miso slowly, dissolving it with a wooden spoon, watching the pale liquid turn golden-brown. The carrots softened. A few slices of tofu went in last. I tasted it—salty, slightly sweet, clean. The aftertaste lingered on my tongue, a quiet comfort that didn't demand anything from me.

I sat down with the bowl and ate slowly. No distractions, no phone. Just me and the soup and the memory of her hands on that board. Some days, cooking feels like conversation with people who aren't here anymore. Today was one of those days.

#food #cooking #miso #memory #family