Homemade food meant fresh-baked pandan mantou, a whole vat of spaghetti sauce with sausages cut small enough for small mouths, and chicken ginseng soup that made you feel stronger with every sip. That's what I had at home. So here, a thousand miles away from those comfort, I'd pick up a packet of processed mantou at the local Asian store or throw in a bunch of herbs whose names I'd never know in a soup just to have a touch of home.

The stale mantou is what it is. Uncomfortable to your teeth, it is soft and crispy where it's not supposed to be. It tastes far from home. But I eat them anyway, and it makes me feel like I have a taste of what was on our marble table.

My home probably doesn't taste much like yours. That's why I gravitate towards tastes that are different than what you're used to. I don't know if anyone would want to have ginseng soup and mantou as their daily meals, so I'm scared of having to share what my home is like. It's different, and it might not suit your taste.

♥ 2:29 PM