It feels like you've outgrown your childhood home. You have to bend down to use the sink. You almost hit your head on your bedroom ceiling fan. And you have to bend your knees to lie comfortably on your mattress.

The morning of your flight out, your coffee tastes bitter and sour - your dad should've used the hand grinder you bought him. Your 生煎包 taste dry - your mom should've gelatinized the broth before pan-frying them. And your green beans taste bland - your dad should've added salt, which happens often. Samin Nosrat is rolling in her bed.

On the ride to the airport, your parents fight about driving safely … again. You wonder how you lived here for 18 years - one day at a time, you suppose, simply, and well enough.

Your dad is saving his hands for gardening, and is controlling his salt intake for his health. And your mom knows to gelatinize the broth; she just forgot this time. You're not better than this place, at least not yet.