A Taste of Home

A Taste of Home

by Hailey Nguyen

The Canberra sky in July was dark and cold, the whole space was surrounded by silence and stillness. The winter cold penetrated the thick walls, seeping into every corner in the house. The room was unusually empty and quiet today, the only sound was the wind hitting the window. My roommate had gone home for the holiday, taking away the warmth and laughter.

I felt like I needed something to fill my void, so I went to the kitchen. When I opened the fridge, a pale yellow light shone out. The fridge looked empty but in the corner, there were some ingredients that I bought the day before: a piece of snakehead fish, tamarind, herbs and pineapple. 

In that cold, suddenly something came to my mind, it was the sour fish soup. That dish carries the voice of my mum and the warmth of home, a bridge between the present and the humid days of lemongrass and sour smell in Vietnam.

I took out the fish, washed it under cold water, and felt the numbness spread to my bones. The sound of the knife hitting the chopping board echoed “clack clack” in the quiet space. When I dropped the lemongrass slices into the pot of boiling water, the scents blended together, bringing a wave of memories. 

Suddenly I felt like I was back in the kitchen in Vietnam, where my mum was stirring a pot of sour fish soup, the steam was fogging up the glass door, the sour smell of tamarind mixed with dill was spreading throughout the house. I felt like a child again, sitting on the old dining table, waiting for my mum to ladle the soup, placed the hot bowl in front of me and gently said: “Eat this to warm yourself up, then continue studying.”

That memory brought a gentle smile to my lips, but it slowly disappeared like steam in the wind. In my mind, there was only the image of that phone call, when my mum asked me about my chosen major, and I was silent, leaving a space between us.

The phone rang on the table. The screen lit up, it was a text message from my mum, the same question: “Have you chosen a major yet?”

I picked it up, looked at the message for a long time, then stood still for a few seconds, as if with enough patience, those words would disappear. But they were still there, as cold as the wind outside.

The water in the pot began to boil, bubbles rose, and burst with a “pop’ sound. I used a ladle to stir, watching the swirling water circles swirl together like the rotation in my head - dream and hope.

The scent of lemongrass, tamarind, and ripped fish filled the room, warm and heavy. That familiar scent made my heart feel heavy, as if, although we were halfway around the world, a real conversation would come soon.

The pot of soup was nearly ready, the steam was rising and blurred the glass window, I scooped a bowl. At that moment, I unconsciously took out my phone, took a photo and sent it to my mum with a caption: “Today I cooked sour fish soup, just like you.” 

A moment later, the video call appeared. My mother’s face was on the screen, smiling slightly as she looked at the soup bowl, but her eyes immediately became serious.

“Have you decided on a major yet?” she asked, her voice calm and firm.

I paused, my fingers tightened on the spoon. I swallowed nervously, the sharp bit of the sour notes of the soup suddenly seemed too overwhelming.

“Mum, I want to study Design. I think I’m suited to it.”

Mum frowned. “Design? Do you think that job can support your life? I’ve worked for a whole life, saved money for years, so that you can study abroad to explore and experience. You didn’t go to Australia to dream, pursue and spend money on an uncertain and vague career like this.”

Each word was a blade. My throat burned with the chilli notes of the soup, too hot, too spicy. My mother always cooked with more subtlety. 

“But this is my life. I cannot walk the path you dreamed for me. Even if it’s hard, I will take care of myself. I’d rather fail in my dream than succeed in yours,” I replied.

My mother responded with silence. The only sound was the water, simmering in the pot. If I didn’t tend to it soon, it would boil over. Still she stared at me through the screen.

I refused to speak again. 

Finally, my mother sighed. It was her long-suffering sigh she used to signal how she had been let down. “Remember, when you fail, that this was your decision. You stand by your choice. Don’t come back to complain or blame anyone.”

My breath trembled, a wave of painful and relieving emotion rose within me. The steam carried a scent of fresh lemongrass, crisp and sharp. But I still felt my mum’s tired eyes still following me. 

After the call, the room returned to silence. The steam rose from the soup bowl and the sweet, sour smell filled the air like filling the void left by the cold. It was warm and comforting. A little bolder than my mother’s but with all the flavours of home.

My tears fell unconsciously, adding a little more salt. I knew the future ahead would be difficult, but at least I had told her. She was so far away.

I took out my phone and texted my mum: “I will really try hard to make you proud and take responsibility for my decision.” 

The message was sent, and a moment later, my phone rang. It was my mum’s message: “If that’s what you really want, try to achieve it. I just hope you work hard and don’t waste the opportunities.”

It was not complete acceptance, but it was enough. I felt like I was no longer a child, but a person who could answer mum with my own beliefs.

Outside, the Canberra winds whistled through the trees, but in the small room, the sour soup bowl was still steaming. I took a small sip and told myself that I would keep going with my own steps.