Every Saturday morning when I was growing up, our home would fill with the scent of garlic fried rice and scrambled eggs. That fragrance would pull me out of bed and Iead me straight to the kitchen.

You could hear the sizzle of mom's cooking,

and that sound,

it just felt like weekend mornings,

like family tradition.

We had a beaded curtain, made with seashells and wooden beads that guarded the entry to our dining area.

The sun would be coming up and cast playful shadows on the wall. I’d always run my fingers along the bead strands and it was like I could feel a connection to a deeper part of my heritage...

Like an invisible thread that tied me to something far older than myself.

And then...

There was the giant wooden spoon and fork hanging on the wall.

I’d gaze at them as I ate my breakfast. They were cartoonishly oversized - which made me laugh.

But they were more than just decorations. They were symbols of luck, health, and prosperity...

Like protectors of our home.

That whole scene is pure nostalgia for me.

Growing up in Guam as a Filipino American, it’s like a snapshot of comfort and safety.

But when I think about it now, there’s also this quiet sadness that comes with it.

Those utensils on the wall remind me of something we lost along the way.

My ancestors used to eat with their hands, but when the Spanish came, they called that “barbaric” and made it seem improper.

Over time, families like ours started using forks and spoons, and it changed the way we ate and, in a way...

I wanted to hold onto that feeling of home, that deep connection to my heritage, while also acknowledging how things have changed.

Each painting has become a reminder of where we’ve come from, what we’ve lost, and what we still carry with us.

It’s my way of keeping our traditions alive, honoring our past, and celebrating my culture and the echoes of the Pacific.