Pitch black, with eye-lids half-open, I dawdled into the kitchen. My fingers adeptly traced the refrigerator magnets, the jagged surface of the Swiss alps, the graininess of Santa Monica beach, and the metallic edges of the Tokyo city skyscrapers that led me to the refrigerator handle.

I searched for comfort but found stubby butts of vegetables like carrots and celery and a few packets of wilting lettuce still covered in plastic from the grocery store. Deeper into the fridge, jars of fermented products and homemade sauces in mismatched containers, from pickled onions to chili sauce with chili flakes and oil floating near the surface, stacked on top of one another. On the top shelf, soaked fungus and mushrooms swam in silver bowls, and lemon chicken feet submerged in glass jars. Grandma had come to visit.

On the side shelf, there was an array of more flavor profiles. A half-empty container of Japanese curry blocks, organic yellow mustard—the kind with seeds, slim packages of marinara pasta sauce, and small containers of condiments taken from restaurants: soy sauce, wasabi, ginger flakes, and chopped spring onion. Grandma had a habit of keeping them there.

I continued searching for comfort in the freezer section. I wanted something quick, something I could throw in the microwave to satiate my cravings, but I was at a loss. My eyes shot open, and I inched backward. There was a whole chicken with a head, body, and all. Underneath were everything you would find at a dim-sum store, frozen pork potstickers, shrimp crystal dumplings, barbecued pork buns, wontons, and spring rolls. My mouth salivated, looking at these delicacies, but none I could prepare without rattling tin pots and steamers to wake up the whole house. The refrigerator simulated my household, brimming with flavors and cultures blended together.