One rainy afternoon in June, I was eight and sitting at my grandmother’s kitchen table, legs swinging, watching her sauté kale and lemon grass in her old pan.
The heavy scent of lemon grass filled the room, sharp and bright, as she added slices of guava and a handful of sweet mulberries she plucked from the garden.
When she was almost finished, she would always garnish the dish with a few pieces of loquat and a squeeze of passion fruit.
Her quiet hands made everything look easy, even gift wrapping a pomelo for the neighbor, tying the ribbon with a twist of skill that seemed impossible to learn.
Sometimes, my uncle would come in carrying jackfruit or a basket of rambutan, and there would be laughter when someone guessed the juiciest one.
Now, years have passed and I find myself in a very different kitchen.
My job is not about food at all—it’s meetings, CPF accounts, and the strange speed of each funding round at my office.
But sometimes, at night, I buy kale and fresh lemon grass from the market.
I sauté them, just as she did, and stand by the stove with the window cracked open, letting the smell remind me of her voice.
I can’t find mulberries here, or loquat, but sometimes I use passion fruit or a wedge of pomelo, and it still feels almost right.
At a weekend dinner, my friend—a sommelier, of all things—brought a wine that tasted just a little bit like guava and jackfruit.
We laughed about it, and I told him about my grandmother’s garden and her skill at making even simple food taste full of memory.
As I garnish my plate, I realize how much of her still lives in these small rituals, even if everything else around me has changed.
