Bà Ngoại's Kitchen

“Bà Ngoại's kitchen was always too hot and too crowded and perfect. The cleaver hitting the cutting board in that rhythm she never lost. Fish sauce and lemongrass and chili hitting the wok — the smell that meant you were home. She never measured anything. A handful of this, a splash of that. The rice cooker clicking off was the dinner bell. Steam rising from the phở pot fogging up the windows. Everyone talking over each other in two languages. She'd put extra in your bowl before you asked.”