This lunar new year eve, I am usually home in Singapore.
I am seven years old, and I wake up to the smell of roasted chilli, poached chicken, and cabbage soup.
There’s a bustle in the kitchen. My grandpa is stirring a pot, making his signature chilli paste that we all won’t eat our food without. My grandma is fussing over the roast duck, soy sauce chicken and whole fish and prawns.
I walk into the kitchen, in search of a snack. No matter how busy they are, they always have time to feed me.
Have some hae jor, beancurd rolls stuffed with pork, shrimp and chestnuts. Have a bit of everything.
My grandma calls me her ‘little baby mouse’, because I eat so slowly and carefully.
I watch TV until my cousins arrive. I put on my good clothes (but I have to be forced to do it). I greet everyone: first in Teochew, then Mandarin, then English.
Happy new year! Happy new year! Happy new year!
Eat, rub my tummy, smell everything, laugh and poke my grandpa’s tummy. I do that every day, but especially on lunar new year, he is especially jovial and happy. I tell him he looks like a fat Buddha, and he laughs.
If you hold your chopsticks that way, ah girl, you are going to move very far away from home. Very far away from me.
How right he was.