The Trip We Never Took

I had always imagined that 2020 would finally be the year we pushed through with our long-awaited trip to Taiwan. It felt like the perfect place for us—a family of proud foodies whose love language has always been shared meals, curious taste buds, and the thrill of discovering new flavors. Taiwan’s night markets, steaming bowls of noodles, and endless snacks felt like they were calling our names.

The trip was meant to be even more special: a joint birthday celebration for my parents and me. We planned it carefully. My dad and I renewed our passports together. I even bought him a comfortable pair of Cole Haan sneakers—something he could use for long walks as we explored food stalls side by side. We were ready.

But fate had other plans. That was the year the pandemic happened, and the world stopped. And now, the part that breaks my heart the most is knowing I will never get to take that trip with him.

Our dad left us more than memories—he left us a gift. His blood blessed us with a natural, instinctive love for food. We inherited his talent: the ability to taste something once and somehow know how to recreate it. Cooking wasn’t just a skill in our family; it was a shared intuition, almost like a secret language passed from one generation to the next. One bite, and we understood each other without saying a word.

Growing up, we were a family of travelers. Beaches were our second home. Maybe that’s why I’ve always loved the sea and seafood—the salt in the air, the warmth of the sun, the flavors that felt like comfort. Travel shaped me, shaped us, and brought us closer together.

That’s why losing the chance to travel with him again—especially to a place like Taiwan—still stings. I can picture it so clearly: us wandering through Shilin Night Market, tasting everything from fried chicken to oyster omelette, exchanging excited looks because we already knew we’d be trying to recreate each dish at home.

I remember him even in his last days—still dreaming about cooking, still thinking about flavors, still trying to teach us some of his well-loved recipes. That was his love language: to cook for others. Whenever I felt under the weather, or even when he sensed something was wrong, he would surprise me with my favorite food. Even the sous chefs in his restaurant and canteen knew my food preferences—because he made sure they did. He’d tell them if I was coming by, which veggies to avoid (lol), and ensure that whatever reached my table felt like comfort. That was him—thoughtful in ways big and small, always showing love through food.

But even if the trip never happened, the spirit of it lives in me. The curiosity, the love for food, the instinct to recreate flavors—that’s him. Every time I cook something new or taste something unforgettable, it feels like he’s still traveling with me in his own way.

One day, I’ll make that trip to Taiwan and other places. I’ll walk those streets and taste those dishes. And when I do, I know I’ll carry him with me—in every bite, every memory, every flavor that reminds me of home.

Now, I’ll be bringing back spices and cooking ingredients not for him, but for me—to explore in his kitchen, keeping his passion alive in the very place where he first taught us how to love food.

And so I’ll keep traveling, cooking, tasting, remembering—because love like his does not end.

It simply changes form, from hands that once prepared my favorite dishes to the heartbeat I carry into every kitchen and every place we once dreamed of exploring together.