Days in Taiwan mostly revolved around food - chasing the next plate of freshly steamed dumplings, trying stinky tofu for the first time, slurping bowls of beef noodle soup, cooling off with sticky-sweet, chewy bubble tea.

What surprised me was how familiar some of it felt.

I grew up in Germany and have Korean roots, yet somehow, sitting in a noodle shop in Taipei felt more like home than many places I’ve known.

It made me think about comfort food - not just as a flavor, but as a feeling. I’ve eaten German bread all my life and love it. But certain foods - noodles in piping hot broth, a steaming bowl of rice - carry a different kind of recognition. Even when they’re not Korean, they echo something deeply known.

This drawing isn’t tied to one dish or even one place. It reflects a more layered kind of belonging. Comfort, after all, doesn’t always follow the lines of heritage - it can live in memories, atmospheres, and quiet moments of recognition between worlds.

Back in Berlin, when I crave warmth, I often find myself reaching for dumplings or a big bowl of noodle soup.

That’s what this piece is about: the quiet, unspoken ways we find comfort in the in-between.