Kira Jane Buxton

I was 12 years old and living in Jakarta, Indonesia when my mother set a bowl of soup in front of me, coiling tendrils of steam rising like my suspicion. “What is it?” I asked. “Sop buntut,” she said. Indonesian oxtail soup. I did not want to eat the tail of an ox. I told her no. She raised an eyebrow. “Remember what happened with the pistachio ice cream.