Going to my grandparents’ house up in northern Japan was always something I looked forward to. I got to eat whatever I wanted and my grandma knew what my favorite foods were. What I happened to look forward to the most, was a Japanese dish called “niku-jyaga” which translates to meat and potatoes. It’s not like the German meat and potatoes. It wasn’t as dry, and it wasn’t as “manly” or “hearty.” My grandma’s niku-jyaga was more moist and stewy. Natural juices from the beef was blended with the sweetness of the onions, the carrots, and the Japanese condiments used to stew everything together. My earliest memory of my encounter with this dish was when I was five years old. It was a cold winter day in Koriyama, where the dry winds slap your face and make your spine shudder. It was the kind of cold that made you crave soup. My grandma told me that because we were going to have a family dinner, she was going to make niku-jyaga. As an eager child, I jumped to help her peel the potatoes and carrots, and sloppily dumped ingredients into the hot pot. I stood on my little stool, watching my petite grandma dirty her apron and work her magic with a smile. As the scent of niku-jyaga began to fill the house, my grandfather, a man with a nose of a dog, came downstairs. He pointed his long thin fingers at the pot and told my grandma she needed to add more salt. My ill uncle wobbled down the stairs and took his seat and gave his signature crooked smile at the sight of me cooking with his mother. As the niku-jyaga was almost complete, my parents come home, dressed in their business suits, and I ran into their arms and told them I cooked for them. My father, tall and muscular laughs at my excitement, while I pull on my mother’s hand to urge her to sit. As they all sit down, my grandmother and I bring out the niku-jyaga and I brag that I helped make this beautiful concoction. “Itadakimasu” we say and sat down to eat. The niku-jyaga tasted like home. Though my Chinese grandmother and my own mother tried to recreate it, their versions never tasted the same as my Japanese grandmother’s. Her’s tasted like home. I tasted the warmth of her smile, the time put in to cook, and the love she has for me. Her niku-jyaga, to me, will always be the epitome of what home cooking tastes like.