One stove fire illuminates the loves and hates of three generations.
The sound of her father Li Zongtang banging his ladle followed her like a shadow. The sugar jar Park Seonhui knocked over clung to her heartbeat, while her mother's words by the kimchi crock, “Child, you've suffered,” burned through the lies. When hibiscus blossoms covered the branches of the Chuanqiong, the “traitor to taste” of the past finally understood:
The fiercest twice-cooked pork needs the mellowing touch of matsutake. A life that scalds like boiling water must be carefully shaped with the knife skills of someone who knows how to protect what matters.
