The flavor is not quite the same.

I don’t lack access to any ingredient, spice or seasoning one can imagine, nor the ability to have it.

I don’t lack culinary experience, as a once-professional chef.

I don’t lack desire.

The texture is not quite the same.

I don’t lack the availability of any technology to mash, squash, puree or blend. Only the time to stand over the oven for 12 hours carefully tending to the simple ingredients.

The color is not quite the same.

I don’t lack the freshest, purest, most high quality ingredients. Only the drive that makes a mother understand that this meal is precious in a world where nothing is guaranteed.

The experience is not quite the same.

Served on a beautiful table nobody notices, as we rush and race and tend to everything other than what is important.

Nothing is the same.

But mine, born from my hands, and mind, and soul, whose struggles were much more glamorous, mostly free from the anxiety of survival, will have to do.

My dish, born from education instead of experience, will feed the ones I love.

My heart, however, can only taste what is missing.