The book recounts the author’s experiences living in places like Taiwan and Thailand in a classic, reflective manner. Both the author and her mother exhibit a profound dedication to cooking—a meticulousness deeply reminiscent of the culinary traditions of Chaoshan, Guangdong. The author pays careful attention to selecting ingredients and often turns to the methods her mother taught her in pursuit of authentic flavors.
Her writing about congee, noodles, tea, fish balls, and pineapple cakes is deeply felt; it reads not only as personal memory but almost like a local chronicle. The final section of the book is particularly moving: the author’s mother passed away shortly after they traveled together to Thailand to visit long-lost relatives. During that trip, they explored the distinct qualities of Southeast Asian cuisine together. They brought back a simple wrought-iron pot from Thailand, still carrying the scent of local spices—a tangible memory of their time together.
Later, the author spent time in Singapore and Malaysia, where she mentions iconic ingredients like pandan leaf, which century-old coffee shops transform into exquisite snacks, often served with coconut milk or cream—each bite full of character. She also writes about char kway teow, which brought back memories of my own trip to Singapore—it’s everywhere in the hawker centres, something you could easily enjoy every day.
What lingers most is the sadness that follows these rich descriptions: not long after leaving Southeast Asia, the author’s mother passed away. These memories drift slowly like the large fans hanging from the ceilings of coffee shops—lingering, swaying, leaving an ache of emptiness and longing. Much like my own experience after leaving the region, a deep sense of melancholy remains.