30 Months Without Mum’s Homemade Food

But Never Without Her Love

Mum, I can still close my eyes and remember the taste, the texture

the way your cooking made us feeling safe, cared for, and deeply loved

Ma, for 30 months now, I have lived without the taste of your cooking, I have longed for the taste of home, not just any home, but the home you created, the one filled with the warmth of your charming presence, the sound of your infectious laughter, most of all, the aroma of your delicious homemade meals, wrapping around us like a hug, your meals that filled not just our stomachs, but our hearts, your meals that never just about eating, but were home served on a plate, comfort on hard days, celebration on good ones, everyday expressions of love, a love was unconditional, endless, and so deep that I never imagined a day would come, when it would all be gone

Ma, food is a universal language, and yours was one of the most beautiful, since your food was never just about sustenance or nourishment, but it was your love language, you spoke through your cooking, through the medium of flavour, through the way you believed a good meal could mend almost anything, your love language was not just in the food itself, but in your way of showing care, when words were not enough, your way of making the simplest meals feel special, and your way of packing extra leftovers for a neighbour going through a rough time, each dish you made carried a piece of your heart, a piece of your soul, a piece of love you poured into our lives

Ma, 30 months of craving your homemade food, of knowing that no meal will ever taste the same again, 30 months of wishing I could have just one more plate, one more taste of your love, one more evening sitting at your table together, sharing meals, stories and jokes, one more moment of feeling the small yet profound delight of being fed by someone, who loves me unequivocally, 30 months of hurting that I will never again watch you cooking, hear you telling me to eat more, to savour every bite, but now, every damn day, without your yummy food, is a damn sharp reminder of your agonising absence, a haunting silence where once there was the comfy of your food

Ma, your kitchen was your kingdom, and you ruled it with grace, ease, and fluency, you did not just cook with such joy, such generosity, such selflessness, but you had always poured your heart into every ingredient, every stir, every simmer, and we could taste it, your meals were not just about the flavours, though were always perfect, but it was about the care you put into every step, the way you chopped vegetables with precision, and patience, the way you cooked with quiet confidence, no recipes, no measuring cups, just intuition honed over decades, now I can still picture you standing at the cooker, apron tied around your waist, a smile on your face as you fed us

Ma, for 30 months, I have walked into the emptiness of a kitchen, that no longer carries the scent of your cooking, and no more clatter of pots and pans, no more rhythmic chopping of foods, creating magic with your hands, no more the familiar sounds of you bustling around, moving through the space that was your sanctuary, I have tried to recreate your dishes but nothing ever tastes quite the same, there is something missing, and what is missing is you, the hands that made it, the heart that seasoned it, the secret ingredient that only you could provide, your love, the kind of love that cannot be measured in teaspoons or cups, the kind of love that cannot be replicated

Ma, there has been a unique kind of grief in never being able to taste your cooking again, I have cried over the realisation that your food, like your presence, is gone forever, as I have searched for you in the flavours, in the motions of stirring and chopping, and I have missed your food every single day in a way that aches, in the way you watched us eating, eyes full of satisfaction, you sneaked extra servings onto our plates, when you thought no one was looking, the way you packed my lunch that made me smile, and you knew all our favourite dishes, our likes and dislikes, you always make sure we were happy and well-fed, but now, those exist only in our memories

Ma, your homemade food was a precious gift, one that I did not fully appreciate until it was gone, it was a gift that made us feeling cared for, a gift that taught us the power of love, the importance of family, the beauty of sharing a meal together, and a gift that connected us to our heritage, to our roots, to you, I have now realised how much of your heart was in every bite, how much of your energy went into every meal, how much of you, 30 months without the rich taste of home, but never a moment, without missing it, 30 months without you, but never a damn day without missing you, for all the months to come, I will continue to miss it, just as I will continue to miss you