About

15 years ago I moved out of my parent's Houston home and left for NYC. Leaving my mother's fully stocked pantry and fridge behind, I instantly felt her absence. Cooking as often as I could, I found myself missing her—and her ability to help me season anything to perfection. I finally understood the amount of love, effort, time and attention she put into feeding us. 

I learned to make Steamy Kitchen's version of Hainanese Chicken Rice so I could eat it with my mom’s hot sauce. It was a balm for the ache that homesickness had created. I missed Sunday family dinners in Chinatown on Bellaire. I missed my dad's version of tomato egg over rice. I missed my mom's grocery hauls. Her hot sauce felt like warmth and care. Now, as a mother, I fully realize that this was her deepest love language.

Before my mother's Alzheimer's kicked into heavy gear, I told her all the time that we should start a hot sauce business. I imagined that she would make the sauce and I'd handle the website and sales. Once her Alzheimer's took over, I realized I'd have to learn to make it if I wanted to keep being able to enjoy it and share it with others.

I'm grateful for the time we had making it together.

Preserving recipe. Preserving legacy.