A Recipe for Disaster

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‧₊˚ ⋅ 𓐐𓎩 ‧₊˚ ⋅

‧₊˚ ⋅ 𓐐𓎩 ‧₊˚ ⋅

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‧₊˚ ⋅ 𓐐𓎩 ‧₊˚ ⋅

Hana Choi stood in front of her childhood home, squinting against the early morning sunlight. The quaint two-story building, with its faded blue shutters and the worn wooden sign proclaiming "Choi's Cuisine" in elegant Hangul script, looked exactly as she remembered it. Yet somehow, after four years away, it felt smaller, more confined than the grand culinary institution of her memories.

She adjusted the strap of her oversized backpack, wincing as it dug into her shoulder, threatening to topple her petite frame. Inside was a treasure trove of spices, specialty ingredients, and cooking gadgets she'd collected during her time in Germany—items she was certain would revolutionize her family's traditional menu. If only she could convince her grandmother to let her try.

Taking a deep breath, Hana pushed open the front door, bracing herself for the whirlwind of familial affection (and inevitable interrogation) that awaited her.

"Hana-ya! My little dumpling!"

Before she could even set foot inside, Hana found herself engulfed in a crushing hug. Her mother, a petite woman with streaks of gray in her otherwise jet-black hair, squeezed her with surprising strength.

"Eomma!" Hana gasped, trying to wriggle free. "Can't... breathe..."

"Oh, hush," her mother scolded, finally releasing her. "After four years, I'm entitled to suffocate you a little." When Hana was finally released, she found herself being scrutinized like a questionable batch of kimchi. "Aigoo, you've gotten so thin! Didn't they feed you in Germany? Come, come, I'll make you a proper Korean breakfast."

Before Hana could protest that she'd eaten on the plane (a lie, but one born of desperation to avoid the mountain of food her mother would undoubtedly prepare), she was ushered into the familiar warmth of the kitchen.

The space was a curious blend of old and new. Sleek stainless steel appliances stood alongside well-worn wooden chopping blocks and earthenware pots that had been in the family for generations. The air was thick with the comforting aroma of doenjang-jjigae simmering on the stove, a scent that instantly transported Hana back to her childhood.

"Sit, sit," her mother urged, practically shoving her onto a stool at the kitchen island. "Tell me everything about Germany. Did you meet any nice Korean boys? Your cousin Miyeon says there's a shortage of good Korean men these days, but surely in Europe—"

"Eomma," Hana interrupted, suppressing a groan. She should have known this was coming. "I was there to study, not date."

Her mother tsked disapprovingly. "Twenty-five years old and not even a boyfriend. What am I going to do with you, Hana?"

"You could start by not trying to marry me off five minutes after I've come home," Hana muttered under her breath.

As Hana turned her head to the kitchen window, she caught sight of a commotion across the street. A crowd had gathered outside Kim's Kitchen, drawn by the tantalizing aroma of... sizzling bulgogi?

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