Adobo simmers on the stove. The smell engulfs a lonely apartment. A simple dish: soy sauce, vinegar, garlic, bay leaf and whatever cut of chicken is on sale. On a Wednesday evening it is my contribution to a block teeming with the immigrant alchemy. Cookouts and cook-ins, dinner for one or 10. Aromas of the world mingle on a stroll off Vermont Avenue, migrant mecca, immigration-nation. Since I left home, I’ve become a fan of the one-pot dish. With each attempt I work to refine the art, the Sisyphean practice of recreating my mom’s masterpiece knowing full well I’ll never succeed.