The strong, nutty scent of sesame oil aired the room.
Dasha expertly chopped vegetables on a wooden cutting board, the rhythmic clinking of the knife against the board providing a soothing soundtrack. The black wok, well-seasoned from countless stir-fries, sat perched on the gas stove. The sizzle and hiss of the ingredients meeting the hot surface added a lively, almost musical quality to the atmosphere.
Music was a true luxury here, unlike in Canada. No phones, only radio, and he refused to use such primitive technology. Not when there was training to be had.
A pot of jasmine rice simmered gently on a back burner. The compact size of the kitchen made every turn and step vital.
