Growing up Vietnamese-Australian

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I remember gripping the ladle so tightly that my knuckles turned white, afraid that if I messed up, I’d never get another chance. The kitchen was my father’s domain, a place of precision and instinct, of movements so practiced they seemed effortless. I had spent years watching from the dining area as he worked—his hands moving swiftly from pot to plate, balancing flavours, adjusting seasoning without measuring. I had memorised every step, every ingredient, but standing there beside him, the weight of responsibility felt different.

“Slower,” he said, watching as I scooped another ladle of broth. “Not so fast.”

I tried again, moving deliberately, letting the liquid pour in a steady stream over the thin slices of beef. The broth had to be just hot enough to cook the meat without making it tough, just the right amount to coat the noodles but not drown them. It wasn’t just about pouring—it was about knowing when to stop.

He tasted again, exhaling softly as he savoured the flavours. “Better,” he murmured. “Still missing something.”

I frowned. I had followed everything he’d done. I had watched him do it a hundred times. What was I missing?

He gestured for me to taste it myself. I lifted the bowl to my lips, taking a small sip. The flavours were there—the richness of the bone broth, the warmth of the star anise, the deep saltiness of the fish sauce—but something was off. It wasn’t quite right.

“More time,” my father said, as if he could read my thoughts. “The broth is young.”

I furrowed my brow. “Young?”

He nodded. “You can rush a lot of things in

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