The meals I hope my son remembers

Photo by Mohit Tiwari on Unsplash‍

I don’t have many food memories from my childhood.

Some of my friends grew up with big Christmas dinners, but my extended family mostly gathered for Chinese New Year and to remember elders who had passed away. Those were the times when everyone came together.

Birthdays were quiet, without much celebration. We didn’t really make a big deal out of cakes, commemorative holidays or cultural observances.

Looking back now, I don’t think my childhood was lacking. We simply lived in a different era.

In the 1980s, we didn’t have food influencers, delivery apps, or endless restaurant recommendations. Eating out wasn’t something people did for fun. Food was just something we needed. We didn’t have a lot, but we managed. Mum cooked every meal, and we ate whatever she made.

Besides, nobody photographed everyday meals back then.

Not every family had a camera. People saved photos for birthdays, holidays, and special events. No one took pictures of a regular Tuesday dinner or of Mum cooking fried rice at the stove.

Those meals lived only in memory.

When I think back now, there are only two dishes I remember vividly.

My mum’s egg fried rice, which I absolutely loved.

And then there was her white-pepper pig’s-stomach soup, cooked until the broth was full of peppery, rich comfort. We only had it on special days, like my grandfather’s death anniversary. It was his favourite, or so I was told.

Funny how memory works. Out of years of dinners, those are the two dishes that stayed with me.

Perhaps that’s why, now that I have a child of my own, I’ve become determined to create food memories with him.

And we don’t need extravagant ones. Just little rituals that, hopefully, he’ll remember one day.

For every birthday in the family, we would choose the cake together.

Not long ago, I asked him to make a list of everyone’s favourite cake flavours. Grandma likes mango. Daddy likes durian. Auntie likes tiramisu. It wasn’t really to make cake shopping easier. It was a way for him to connect with people, to ask questions, notice details, and remember that everyone has their own little favourites.

More than that, I want him to learn that remembering what someone loves is, in its own way, a way of loving them too.

There are also places that have become part of our family’s story.

Whenever we go to Paradise Dynasty, I tell him that I used to eat there almost every week when I was pregnant with him. I joke that he’d already tasted xiao long bao and la mian before he was even born.

These days, I don’t even have to tell the story anymore.

He tells it to me. He would say: ”Isn’t it crazy how I used to eat xiao long bao when I was still in your stomach?”

And if someone joins us for the meal, he’ll happily announce that this was where Mum always ate when he was still in her tummy.

It makes me smile every single time.

Truth be told, we don’t actually have many family dinners together at home.

My in-laws prefer eating earlier in the evening. My mother-in-law still oversees the cooking, with our helper preparing most of our weekday meals. By the time my husband and I finish work or are ready to eat, we’re usually tired and often end up ordering food delivery instead.

I want to cook more. Not because I think homemade food is superior, but because cooking creates memories too. The funny (and good) thing is, my son doesn’t ask for elaborate meals.

He’s perfectly happy with my pancakes, mashed potatoes and baked cheese rice. They’re simple dishes, but because I don’t make them often, they’ve somehow become “Mummy’s food”.

I’ve also found myself introducing him to foods that I love.

Bak chor mee from Lam’s Noodle & Salt Baked Chicken. Lemak ayam from Hjh Maimunah. Nasi Lemak from Ponggol Nasi Lemak. Janggut Laksa, The Original Katong Spoon Laksa @ Queensway Shopping Centre. Char Siew Pau from Nam Kee Pau. All the kueh from Bengawan Solo. Watching your child fall in love with a dish you love feels strangely satisfying.

Some traditions came from my husband’s side of the family.

His family is Hainanese, just like the owners of Chin Chin Eating House. It’s a family business, and the Hainanese community here is close-knit. My father-in-law spent a lot of time there, so the owners know him well. My husband has been going since he was a child, so now they know him too.

Now we take our son there, too.

Three generations connected by the same Hainanese chicken rice and mixed vegetable stew (chap chye).

Durian is another family affair.

Both our families love it, especially my husband. He couldn’t wait to introduce it to our son. Thankfully, our little boy loved it from the first bite. I honestly don’t know what we would have done if he hadn’t.

And then there are the quieter moments that no restaurant could ever replace.

Whenever we visit my mum, my son has recently started volunteering to help her prepare dinner. She’ll patiently show him how to chop vegetables while he listens carefully beside the chopping board.

Watching them together fills me with a warmth that’s difficult to describe. It isn’t really about learning knife skills. It’s about one generation passing something on to the next. It’s about quality time with Ah Ma. And I’m pleased that he now also loves my mum’s egg fried rice.

I used to think I didn’t have many food traditions growing up, but perhaps traditions aren’t always the loud, celebratory ones.

Sometimes, traditions involve choosing a birthday cake together. Sometimes, they’re telling the same Paradise Dynasty story for the 438th time. Sometimes, they’re three people squeezed into a bedroom with takeaway dinners, because that’s what works. And other times, they’re a grandmother guiding her grandson as he chops vegetables for dinner.

As my son gets older, I notice he’s beginning to build his own food memories.

Last year, we travelled to Chengdu, where he fell in love with mapo tofu. We ordered it almost every day for a week when we were there. Now, whenever he sees mapo tofu on a menu, he thinks about Chengdu. How his spice tolerance went up, and he was so proud of it, how he mastered chopsticks, and how tiring our Chengdu vacation was (we had a tight schedule).

I like that.

Because perhaps food memories aren’t really about food. They’re little anchors tied to people, places and moments in our lives.

I used to think I was trying to create food memories because I didn’t have many of my own. Now I realise that’s only partly true. What I’m really trying to create is a sense of home.

One birthday cake.

One egg fried rice.

One ordinary meal at a time.

And one day, the kind of home he will remember.