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In bold: key vocabulary. Tap any word in the text to see its definition.
On Kepler Station, forty light-years from the Earth Yara had never seen, a birthday dinner was no small matter. Food was grown in trays under purple lights, and the menu was decided by an algorithm. But tonight her father was turning seventy. Yara had resolved to make the dish he had described a thousand times: pepián, a thick stew that his own mother used to simmer on Sundays in a village with real mountains.
Yara had found the recipe in the station's archive, in a file so old that the formatting was broken. The ingredients were simple: tomatoes, pumpkin seeds, sesame, dried chiles, and a handful of patience. The station, however, had no dried chiles, only hydroponic peppers, which were red and cheerful and entirely lacking in smoke. Had anyone thought to bring a few seeds from Earth three generations ago, she would have had the real thing.
She roasted the tomatoes in the small oven and toasted the seeds until the whole corridor smelled of a place she had never been to. She ground everything by hand, since the machines left it far too smooth. When the stew began to bubble, she tasted it: it was good, and yet it was wrong in a way she could not put into words. It was like hearing a beloved song played on the wrong instrument.
Her father arrived at eight, in the jacket he wore for special occasions. He sat at the small table, and Yara served two bowls. He studied the stew for a long moment before he picked up his spoon. The steam rose between them. She watched his face the way a pilot watches a screen, waiting for a signal.
He took a spoonful and closed his eyes. One minute passed, then two. "It isn't right," he said at last, quietly. Yara's heart dropped. "The peppers are too bright, and there's no smoke." She began to apologize, but he lifted his hand. "But do you know what it reminds me of? My mother, standing at the stove and saying exactly the same thing. According to her, it never tasted quite like her own mother's."
He took another spoonful and smiled, with tears shining in his eyes. "If she had been here, she would have told you it's not perfect, and then she would have asked for more." He held out his bowl. Yara laughed and filled it again.
After dinner, she saved the recipe in the station's archive, with a note at the bottom: "Not right. Made with love. Third version." She knew that one day, someone else would follow it, with peppers that were a little too bright, and would taste a place that none of them had ever seen.
