The summer of 2012 was an extraordinary one for me. The birch trees of Northern California stood out against the fiery sunsets. The kids in my host family and I shared “High School Musical” references while “Call Me Maybe” by Carly Rae Jepsen played in the background.
A silver lining during the pandemic quarantine: the unexpected joy of cooking for myself. From getting groceries to preparing the ingredients to putting them in the pan, cooking is not only a life-sustaining skill, but it is also a much needed reprieve from the world that allows one to indulge in the taste of memories and home.
I wake up, and I check the phone. Here’s a novel idea of the day: How’d you figure the world would end? As it turns out, feeling like the world’s going to end creeps in unsuspectedly.
The earliest memories I have of America involve a slew of mystical reveries about how the nation on the other side of Earth works. How did I even begin to explain America? It was immaculate. It had 50 states with so many different time zones.