My mother never wrote down a recipe in her life. She held them in her hands, in the way she moved through a wok without measuring, the way she knew when the broth was ready before it told her, the way her spring rolls were always exactly right without ever being exactly the same twice. I grew up in that kitchen without knowing I was learning anything. These recipes are what stayed with me across fifty years and eight thousand miles. The street soup from Korat, the temple chicken, the noodles my grandchildren ask for every single time they walk through the door. Food that began in Thailand and found its way, dish by dish, into a life built far from home. Her hands made all of it. This collection is my way of keeping them close.
