The street vendors in Korat worked over fire the way my mother worked over her stove, without hesitation, without measuring, with the complete confidence of someone who had done it ten thousand times and never once needed to think about it. The wok over the flame. The garlic hitting the oil. The smell reaching you before you could see where it was coming from. I watched those hands as a child the way I watched everything in those markets, completely, unable to move, not wanting to miss a single thing. I did not know then that I was memorizing something. I only knew it smelled like the world was exactly right. My mother cooked the same way in every kitchen we ever had. Fast and certain, the wok already hot before you knew you were hungry. When the boys came home from practice and stood in the kitchen without being called, just drawn there by the smell, I understood what those vendors understood. You do not need a recipe. You need a hot wok, good oil, garlic, and someone worth feeding. Everything else follows.
