In the United Kingdom, shopping was a kind of translation at first. Milk has different colours on the label. Soured cream does not behave exactly as I expect. Cheese requires patience. The shelves are full, but for a few simple recipes I needed three shops and two phone calls to my mother.

The most emotional moment was finding a Romanian shop. It was not large, but it had familiar jars, chocolate I recognised, and people speaking words in the way I knew them. I bought more than I needed, of course. Some things went into the basket only because they reminded me of Sundays, holidays, and the table laid in the kitchen.

Now I am trying not to turn homesickness into a shopping list. I want to learn the tastes here too: apple pie eaten warm, tea taken slowly, biscuits discovered in a plain box. Perhaps home is not one taste kept unchanged, but one that settles over new ones until the table feels like yours again.