I love my sister Hannah, but sometimes I hate her with a passion. And I often devour her ‌delicious cooking, but sometimes I feel like she is poisoning me. 

Throughout our childhood, when our family stayed at hotels, the only channels available on the TV were CNN and Food Network. This began our lifelong addiction to Food Network. My recollection is that before Hannah and I became entranced with Food Network, we isolated ourselves from one another by meticulously erected pillow barriers that bisected the bed. Of course, her portion of the bed resembled a luxurious kingdom with an abundance of pillows. Meanwhile, I found myself precariously perched on the edge, desperately clung to one of those scratchy decorative pillows. Her foot still dared to cross into my territory, so I kicked her with all my might. We would shut each other out by listening to our personal music playlists with headphones. I annoyed my sister by blasting the top 2014 hits, jamming out to Katy Perry and Ariana Grande. She dramatically rolled her eyes, glaring at me while listening to Mozart and Beethoven. Our tastes diverged; our relationship was a recipe for disaster. 

We randomly flipped to channel 110 (Food Network), and the tantalizing lifelike dishes had us inching toward the boxy hotel TV screen. Eventually, the pillow barrier fell, and the headphones came off. We admired a mouth-watering milk chocolate cake, crowned with fresh strawberries and glossy ganache, on the show Chopped. We watched Food Network together every week from that day on. It became “our thing,” something that I looked forward to every day, and I realized I actually liked my sister… sometimes. 

Hannah gained inspiration from the iconic Gordan Ramsey and made it her goal to cook just like him. She never reached that goal. Whenever she finished her homework, she gravitated to YouTube cooking tutorials. She adopted a new hobby and dragged me into it. Her current obsession was concocting “tasty” healthy desserts, such as the infamous oatmeal cookies. Hannah yelled at me in a melodramatic, whiny voice to help her with the dirty work, while she serenely swirled the oatmeal mix. 

She screamed, “Do the dishes and clear the sink before we bake these oatmeal cookies!” 

I did not want to help my controlling older sister, but as always, I reluctantly succumbed to her tyranny and scrubbed the stubborn stains off the dishes. I thought my work here was done, so I eagerly scurried back upstairs to finish building my miniature Lego brick Minneapolis. Legos were my obsession at the time. Hannah stopped me on the third step and begged me to take out the baking pans from the kitchen cabinet. As usual, I obliged. 

My sister combined brown sugar, oats, raisins, eggs, baking soda, and salted butter. Forty-five minutes later, we removed the burnt cookies from the smoking oven and set them aside to cool. I glanced at the recipe, noticing that it specified unsalted butter rather than salted butter. The recipe should have said, “Don’t be stupid enough to use salted butter instead of unsalted butter.” 

After the cookies cooled, Hannah wafted the unappealing charred cookie in my face. I did not want a salty burnt cookie anywhere near my mouth. I tentatively bit into a hard solid lump, as oats crumbled down my teary face. I feel like I am eating one of my Lego bricks. Gagging profusely, I immediately rushed to the sink and spit the inedible cookie out. My evil sister is cackling as I suffer. 

I say, “Hannah, you used salted butter! The recipe calls for unsalted butter!” 

She doubled over laughing at her mistake. I hated how she treated me as a guinea pig for all her cooking disasters.

By my thirteenth birthday, I still had not forgotten the oatmeal cookie incident. On that day, I was skateboarding at the skatepark, relentlessly attempting to land an ollie off a four-stair. Little do I know, my sister was in the kitchen, expertly putting together that first milk chocolate cake that we fell in love with on Chopped. I came home doused in sweat, bloody scratches on my elbow from the failed attempts at the ollie, awaiting the resuscitating house air-conditioning. A sweet chocolate aroma greeted me at the door, and I rushed into the dining room. Displayed on the table is the extraordinary dessert that I have always wanted. I could not believe my sister baked this perfectly shaped chocolate delicacy, coated in powdered sugar and decorated with strawberries. For the first time, I was looking forward to tasting her creation. Hannah cut a large piece of the cake and placed it on a saucer, then handed it to me. My parents beamed as they sat at the table, watching their daughters come together. In the first bite, I experienced culinary perfection. It was exactly how I imagined it in that hotel room three years ago. She used the unsalted butter, as a proper baker would. In this moment, the sweetness of the cake merged with the sweetness of my feelings toward my sister. I pictured Hannah reading the recipe early that morning. And I imagined her coming to the last line of the recipe that said, “A person should be thoughtful and loving toward their younger sister.”

Time passed swiftly, and our sibling rivalry simmered down into the occasional interruption of an otherwise rising friendship. Soon, I found myself at sixteen battling the merciless bronchitis. Alone and without our parents, I curled up in a ball and prepared to face this obstacle on my own. In this unfortunate state, my sister emerged as a guiding light, showing care and support. Understanding the extent of my discomfort, she took on the complex task of making xi fan (Chinese Congee), a dish known for its difficult preparation process and the patience it demands. As I drifted into a healing sleep that lasted five hours, Hannah skillfully showcased her culinary talents by transforming ingredients into a soothing remedy. When I woke up, there was my sister, right next to me, her mother-like presence offering this labor of love. I spooned down the savory rice porridge with pickled radishes, seasoned with soy sauce. Hannah’s kind gesture, filled with compassion and warmth, resonated with me and reminded me of her unwavering protective nature. 

A year later, my foodie sister is pursuing medicine, while teaching English in Taipei, on a scholarship. Every few days, I receive photos of her traditional Taiwanese meals and I send photos from our favorite Houston Tex-Mex restaurant. There is no pillow barricade between us anymore, and I feel we truly took each other for granted as children. Now, she is eight thousand miles away and fourteen hours ahead. The distance is an unwanted barrier, but the recipe for a close sisterly bond is developing sweetly as we mature. I envision Hannah perched over a stove in her efficiency apartment, experimenting with local aromatic spices and herbs that permeate her surroundings. I see her lifting the glass window and opening the shades to air out the room. Sometimes I wish I was there with her, but more so, I miss her protecting and guiding spirit at home. Hannah and I will never have the opportunity to live together as sisters again. She will return home from Taiwan, but then leave immediately for medical school. Our relationship will never be the same, and I know her departure will feel like a profound loss. I am deeply proud of her and wish her great satisfaction in her new life, but I do not want to let her go. Growing up, we bonded together through food, and I hope we can continue our tradition of binge watching Food Network on Hannah’s visits home, while reminiscing about our sweet and salty experiences.