I am five years old, eating my favorite Cambodian delicacy, Prahok, in my family’s new apartment in Dallas. With my fingers, a bite-sized amount of Prahok is on its way to my mouth. The salty, slightly fishy taste washes over me, I’m transported back home, despite the unfamiliar surroundings. This is more than simply a meal; it’s a symbol of my heritage.

My grandmother communicates through broken English, making it challenging to talk to her. However, her love is expressed through cooking. After immigrating to The United States, she opened a restaurant to support her young family. The delicious aroma that fills her home and her smile upon our enjoyment of her food is how she expresses her love.

I was sitting across from my grandmother, her kind smile radiating in the dim glow of the dining room light. In passing, I mentioned how much I loved the fresh coconut she set out. The next day, I walked into her house to find four freshly shaved coconuts waiting for me on the dining room table. Despite her limited strength, my grandmother had gone out of her way to bring extra joy into my life. This simple act was a testament to her love and the lengths she was willing to go to make me smile. Each coconut was not simply a fruit but an unwavering symbol of her love. In this moment, I truly understood the depths of my grandmother's love, encapsulated in the sweet taste of fresh coconut.