•1 month ago•
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The air in Luang Prabang's morning market tastes of woodsmoke and river mist. It's barely six, and the Mekong sits silent beyond the stalls, a silver ribbon catching the first light. I'm crouched beside an elderly woman who's arranging tiny bundles of herbs—lemongrass, mint, something sharp and unfamiliar that she crushes between her fingers and holds up to my nose.
Phak i leut
, she says. Dill. But not the dill I know. This one smells like the forest floor after rain.