As I crack another egg into the bowl, I can’t help but mourn for a part of me that is lost. It’s been long since I’ve followed the four simple steps of scrambling eggs:

1. Crack an egg into a bowl

2. Properly mix it with a fork or a chopstick

3. Heat up some oil in a pan

4. Pour the egg in the pan and scramble

How easy is that? But a quintessential part of being a student is laziness. I find myself skipping the first two steps and cracking my eggs directly into the hot pan. What usually happens next is that I would struggle to mix the white and the yolk before the heat solidifies them into separate parts, and I end up with a clump of eggs somewhere between an omelet and a sunny-side-up. I wonder what my mom would say. Probably a scornful “No, Michelle, no!”

I left home when I was 14. Ever since then the idea of a proper meal has morphed into a combination of crappy dining hall menus and greasy take-outs boxes. When I occasionally cook, I find that everything tastes like soy sauce. I spend many hours a week staring into a pot of murky pasta water, waiting for it to boil. I’m too impatient to soak my rice for 30 minutes before turning on the rice cooker, per my mother’s instructions, and too tired to stop the dirty dishes from piling up in the sink. I haven’t eaten vegetables in days.

But today I decided to be a bit nicer to myself. I decided that I would make some scrambled eggs and fry a couple slices of spam, drizzle some sweet soy sauce on top and eat them over a bed of properly cooked rice. Hong Kong style. 

Following the steps, I cracked the eggs into a bowl and mixed them until the white and the yolk melted into each other. I cut out thin slices of canned spam into the hot pan. I soaked my rice for 30 minutes. As I waited for the rice cooker meter to pop, I sneakily scooped a spoonful of scrambled eggs into my mouth. It reminded me of my mother, who would always let me try a bit of what she was making before serving it onto the table.

My mom hasn’t always been a good cook. In fact, she was so bad that my sister and I would joke that she only knows how to make instant ramen. When I left for boarding school, I knew that I wouldn’t miss her cooking too much. But one summer, when I came back from school, I found that she had changed. She had learned how to cook. From salads to soups to cakes, she masterfully works her way around every ingredient, and watches us devour our meals with nothing but love in her eyes. Food is her love language.

Sometimes I feel like my mom is the egg white, and I, the runny egg yolk. Her presence around me feels safe but often suffocating. As I grow up I realize that her decision to send me away is as cruel as it is wise for the both of us. When I am away, the egg and the yolk stand alone, and when I am back, she welcomes me with open arms.

The years I’ve spent apart from her has made it easier for the both of us to embrace each other upon my return. We argue less, fight less, and try to enjoy the precious moments we get to spend with each other, often through cooking. That, perhaps, is the magic of distance.

That summer, when I watched my mother drift around the kitchen, opening the fridge, washing the vegetables, firing up the stove, and cooking the rice, I saw a younger version of myself, trailing behind her like a shadow, watching and learning her every move. I remember eating a can of spaghettiOs in the backseat of my father’s car. The sweet artificial taste lingered in my mouth as I complained to my mother. I remember standing on a little stool, so I could watch her make the simplest bowl of ramen. Sometimes I miss her even when she’s around.

The night is falling. Homesickness tightens its grip. As I sit on the bed in my little apartment, I would close my eyes and I would hear her. The sound of the plastic packaging crinkling, the sound of water boiling, the sound of my mother calling my name. I’d like to go to sleep, surrounded by the sensations of my youth. I wouldn’t even dream, because memory itself is beautiful enough to sustain me through the night.

I imagine waking up the next morning to the sound of my dad running his Nespresso machine, slowly and gently grinding a packet of coffee beans into a small cup of compressed energy. My mother is making breakfast, scrambled eggs and spam. And my sister is coming to wake me up.

Dear mother, when you opened the door, it was me who ran away.