'But when I make this dish and those spices combine, I’m brought back to that sense of harmony, where all aspects of me are seasoned just right.'
Step into my kitchen and you’ll immediately spot my spice rack.
Scan the rows to find the likes of ground cinnamon, nutmeg, and allspice, cayenne, paprika, crushed red pepper, and a limited variety of dried herbs. You can probably tell what’s in each , but just in case, they’re labeled in Sharpie on strips of Post-its, reinforced with clear tape. Sitting atop the cabinet are grocery store-brand bottles of garlic and onion powders that wouldn’t fit on the shelves.
These spices are kept apart, with the spice rack on the wall and the dabbas tucked away in a cabinet. In many ways, their origins are separated, as well. Seldom do I think about him when I use it. Maybe I’ll reflect on the meals we made together in my first kitchen and how much culinary prowess I’ve gained since. Maybe I’ll think about the origami rose he made, which sat for years in a small glass on the table in my apartment. Maybe I’ll think about how deeply unequipped I was to trust him, and how the writing—in addition to the spice cabinet—was always on the wall.
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