Kalua Pork

Every person who's ever come to my house may remember the familiar smoky smell of pork wafting from our kitchen as they're welcomed by my mom with a smile and a laugh. Our home is always decorated beautifully, every wall with pictures of those we love, and every couch layered with blankets gathered from many Christmases and housewarmings.

My mom is one of those people who will always make you feel understood and valued. She is unwaveringly strong but always funny -- the life of the party. She was raised a small-town girl, but she raised her four children all around the country, both literally in her quick, deliberate unpacking and in her warmth; no one can make a house a home quicker than my mom.

When my family left the corn fields of Kansas and flew over the Pacific, there was no telling what this new chapter would bring. I began to forget what driving by sunflowers was like and became used to seeing the waves crashing against land while on the way to school. My family adjusted to the new reality of having family thousands of miles away, and we threw ourselves into the new culture of island living. The change was drastic to say the least, but pretty soon, island life began to feel natural.

My childhood in Hawaii comes back to me in scenes and glimpses. Running barefoot everywhere, learning how to climb trees, Fridays after school, driving to the beach cabins, freshly squeezed lemonade, and sitting on the front of my mom's paddleboard. One early weekend on the beach, we wandered into a bustling restaurant right on the sand. We were seated on the deck with the shore right beside us. My parents, wanting to keep all six of us happy and full, ordered us a huge plate of Kalua pork nachos.

Every single one of us left that restaurant with a full stomach and a new favorite food. So much so that when any family came to visit, we knew they had to try it. We returned to that restaurant a few times, each time the tables being a little bit less full than the last, but from then on, my mom learned how to create her own version of this meal, and eventually, it became a staple in our kitchen.

We moved from Hawaii after two years, having one of the hardest goodbyes we've ever had. The slow-moving jeeps in O‘ahu were quickly replaced with the angry SUVs of Washington D.C., and my siblings and I quickly learned we weren't in Hawaii anymore with the rude awakening of bur-covered grass. But just like before, with our first visitors came the same familiar smell from the kitchen.

Leaving Hawaii was abrupt and difficult, but my mom kept that part of our life with us. At first, this meal was a surprise, but to my family, it meant that we did have a place, even when it felt uncertain. We wandered around, trying to fit in on the new beaches of a brand new life. Now, my mom shows everyone else that they are welcome, that even if they are feeling uncertain or unsure, they are loved. She shows every person that they have a place in our house, and she does it with the same meal.

Where we live may not always stay consistent, but we will always have a home. Even now that I venture away from my family, and I don't always have my mom to steer me like she did when I sat on her paddleboard, every decision I make is rooted in the lessons she taught me. My mom taught me strength, laughter, and confidence. She taught me that family is sacred and that sometimes it takes multiple villages. My mom taught me how to make a home. And now every time I come home, I know there'll be a huge hug, a steady smile, and Kalua pork waiting for me.