Meera’s first baklava was a failure, but she learned more from that failure than from a perfect dish. Taste is not about perfection; it is about curiosity.

“Carlos told me,” Meera said, cradling her mug, “that for ten years, he couldn’t grow coffee because armed groups controlled his land. Now he sings when he picks the cherries.”

Two years later, Meera returned from Thailand with a suitcase that smelled of lemongrass and fish sauce. Customs must have had questions. Inside her checked bag were vacuum-sealed packets of kaffir lime leaves, galangal, and dried chili threads, alongside a small, hand-painted mortar.

One of the things that I was grateful for was the way that Sarah's travels had brought us closer together. We had always been close, but her experiences had given us a new appreciation for each other. And as we sat down to eat, I could see the way that food had become a way for us to connect and share our experiences.

Over the years, Meera’s travels have built an informal, evolving pantry in our shared family kitchen. A shelf is dedicated to her finds: Korean gochujang from Seoul, Mexican vanilla extract from Veracruz, Ethiopian berbere spice from a market in Addis Ababa, and a jar of preserved lemons from Morocco that she guards like treasure.