Soup for the soul

A bowl of udon a day keeps the homesickness at bay.

Story by Trois Ono

Design by Remy Tsukahira

Photos by Trois Ono & Jasmine Yi

Milai, I just had the heartiest meal ever. I’m still thinking about it.

I went to this Japanese restaurant called Sea Ranch Sushi. I hadn’t heard of it before, despite having spent almost two quarters in Evanston. I don’t know how I missed it.

The snow on my sleeves melted as I walked in, and my fingers ached from the cold. As I eased the door open, I immediately knew what I needed.

I navigated around the market section, passing by rows of sweets I used to buy with you and Uchyu at the konbini, and made my way to the checkout. The cashier stood behind the counter in an apron, watching me with a patient attentiveness, asking me what I would like. After keying in my order, she told me to take a seat in the corner.

As she turned around, I caught her voice saying, “Gyuniku-udon hitotsu!”

The words warmed my ears. It had been months since I’d heard the language spoken so casually — not over a late-night video call with Mom and Dad, but out loud.

For a split second, I was sitting across from you and Uchyu. We used to play the finger guessing game while we waited for our food. He was always so competitive despite losing half the time. Do you remember that?

The cashier shuffled to the back, oblivious to my pang of nostalgia. I sat at my table, eyes stinging. She spoke just like how Auntie Mika-san used to call our cousins in the midst of our elaborate pretend play when it was time for them to go home.

Suddenly, Evanston didn’t feel so cold.

When my order came, I gave thanks for the meal and wolfed down a bite of thick, chewy udon noodles. The broth was steaming and savory. It tasted like the noodles Mom would make when we got the flu in the winter. I spent so many weeks trying to get over missing her cooking, but you know how it is. You can’t really outrun that craving.

Being at college feels great. I mean, it is great. The independence of living on my own, deciding how to spend my days, being away from constant family presence — it was all new to me. But the novelty of moving to the States gradually fades as the quiet isolation and the distance from my identity grow.

Yet, there I was, sitting against the window in this quiet restaurant tucked away on Dempster Street. With each sip of hot tsuyu, I exhaled, the weight of homesickness on my shoulders easing just slightly.

If I’m being honest, I don’t think I can ever get used to the way winter seems to stretch longer than it needs to, or the sense of living slightly out of step with everyone else. But reliving something ordinary from home turns a moment like this into something extraordinary. It’s like a reminder that the parts of myself I miss aren’t completely gone.

Sorry for the long voice message. Call me when you’re free. Bye.