PeonyMagazine

  When I think of  comfort food , I don’t think of a single dish. I think of a table. It’s scratched from years of use, a little uneven, always with mismatched plates. Around it are people: family, friends, and sometimes strangers who became family by the end of the meal. And in the center, there’s something warm, fragrant, and familiar… even if it’s the first time I’ve ever tasted it.  My first real taste of the world came in the form of my neighbor’s  chicken adobo . I was fifteen, and my only concept of “comfort food” was my mother’s baked macaroni and cheese. But one night, Mrs. Ramos invited us over for dinner. The kitchen was humid from the steam of the simmering pot, the air thick with vinegar sharpness, garlic’s sweetness, and the earthy depth of soy sauce. She spooned the glossy chicken onto my plate, the sauce spilling into the rice until each shone. The first bite was tangy, savory, a little sweet, and so tender it nearly fell apart before I could chew. I ...