I tell people that my book started with a Japanese curry recipe. That's not entirely true. Sure, at the beginning of lockdown 1.0, I bumped into a pregnant friend panic-buying at a grocery store, which prompted me to share some recipes for friends who had no choice but to rely on home-cooking. If you think life was hard under quarantine, think about raising a baby under quarantine.

The first recipe I shared was the Japanese curry, but it was not the first recipe I wrote for the book.

This time last year, I was at a friend's CNY lunch party, and I brought my mum's Zha Jiang Mian.

A Canadian white lady went crazy.

" Oh my god, this is so good. You have to tell me the recipe. "

What are you talking about white lady? It's just minced meat and noodles.

" Give. me. the. recipe. Email me. Here's my Whatsapp number. "

Slow down lady, your husband is just there. My wife is right here.

20 years ago, when I left home permanently for Australia, it was the only thing I asked from my mum, this recipe. She took it from someone else. From a photocopy of someone else's cooking school notebook. The best type of recipe.

It is straightforward.
Making the sauce is easy.

Stir fry aromatics - onions, garlic, add tau cheo, hoishin sauce.
Add mince pork, mushroom, stir fry until brown, then add the usual soy, dark soy, shaoxing, sugar, salt, cornstarch slurry and MSG of your choice.

To present it though, she'd julienne the vegetables.
The cucumber, carrots, capsicum, chilli, fish cakes, tofu, bean sprouts and spread them out on a big plate.

Does this sound familiar?
Yes, it's like yee sang.

My mum, the host, she'd lay this giant plate of a rainbow in a circle, surrounding the ragu in the middle. She'd hand the guests a plate of noodles and let them choose their own toppings. If you don't like chilli, leave it out. If you only want carrots, go crazy. In the end, everyone did their mini toss on their lap / table.

I never had an authentic ZJM from Beijing. But this sticky, sweet, bastardised Chinese bolognese with crunchy vegetables is a cornerstone memory. Every time I see the big plastic orange container on the dining table I know we be celebrating. In fact, I made this dish during the home econ test in high school and LeBron'ed my whole team of boys to an 'A'.

Anyway, the first recipe that kickstarted Soy Sauce, Sugar, Mirin, technically was this recipe.
I wrote it, to Karen T from Canada.

Simply because she was so upfront, and asked for it.

I really love Americans and Canadians for their personalities. If they really love something, they'd declare it.

Meanwhile, Asians (Melburnians?) are just hardwired to be coy and reserved. Negative even. An emotional self-defence mechanism. That's the trend now, to queue up for hours just to declare something is 'so-so'. To be the first in line to be disappointed.

I have a theory about why Asians (or just me) have such an intense relationship with food.

If you're born in the 80s like me I'm going to assume your parents aren't the chatty 'let's-talk-about-our-feelings' type. If they were, then there wouldn't be a whole genre of Amy Tan and Joy Luck Clubs. If they were, then Pixar's 'Bao' would make zero sense. Perhaps it's not that they didn't talk. They just didn't talk about things you wanted to talk about.

They were nice to their friends, but not to you. They contradict themselves all the time, but you can't call them out. They can't tell you they love you nor be vulnerable in front of you, but they don't hesitate to point out what they dislike about you. Everything you share becomes a problem for them to solve while they poo poo any suggestions you provide. (What do you know? Be quiet. Adults are talking.) They send you to drawing lessons but say don't major in arts. They want you to read, but not be a writer. Play an instrument but there's no future in music. They always leave it to the breaking point to save a situation.

One of the only times they are being openly honest, to their kids or to themselves, is when food is involved.

You ask your dad why he married mum, he changes the subject. You ask him about tea or whisky or red wine, he won't let you off until 2 am.

Your mum can't remember your best friend's name, but she will tell you where to buy the cheapest yeast in town for bao-making. She remembers the aisle, the price, down to the last decimal point.

Pop quiz: when your family goes out with others for a banquet dinner, what's the first thing your mum says to your dad at the end of the night when you get in the car?

I'll bet money on one of the following:

' How much was dinner? '

' Who paid? '

' It was / was not reasonable. '

And the whole drive back would be a full dissection of the restaurant, the 'dining experience'. From the service to the teapot to the scent of the kitchen towel, the toilet, the chopsticks, the uniform, the decor, how many blades the fans have, the business model. The relationship. Who's who worked at where's where.

Sometimes it's great. 'Wah, that fish was amazing.'

Sometimes not. 'Cheh, let's never go back again.'

For that short moment in time, it wasn't about grades, the neighbours, faces, money, shortcomings.

It's just about what they liked and disliked.

Feelings.
Honesty.

Sometimes, they might even ask and respect your opinions.

Just eyes on the road. No guards.

That dark contour of the headrests and their hairs pulsing along with the road lights.

Weeks and months and YEARS worth of those conversations, in the car.

Training. Bonding. An oasis of twisted therapy.

And we wonder why we're so harsh when it comes to food. The urge to comment, fight, criticise, respond to food that's not done your way, your preference.

Why we cannot fathom when someone at work says ' I don't care about food, it is just fuel.' It's the same sense of envy and disturbance when you meet friends who grew up with no expectations from their parents. Friends who get ice creams every day, PS2 during the first week of launch, just a pat on their head when they didn't do well in class. Those who don't check price tags and embrace the idea of car loans. They're the ones who could brush off a crappy meal.

They don't understand that mealtime to a tiger family was like the outdoor time in prison.
The pocket of air from the vast sea of confusing expectations.

Now that we're adults, we're just trying to eat our way back to that safe place.

It's probably also why I chose this dirty piece of paper to remember my old home by.

Anyway, just a theory.

Thanks for reading.

If you run out of nice things to say to your family, remember, there's always food as a common ground. Better yet, talk smack about the restaurants you all hated.

Do enjoy the last week of Chinese New Year.