Ashes in the Light

I cooked wonton noodles today—nothing fancy, just a simple meal. But somehow, it brought me straight back to the school holidays I spent with my maternal grandparents.

They used to make noodles for me just like this—light and comforting, tossed with a bit of sesame oil and light soy sauce. No frills, but always full of heart. I can still picture it: my grandma at the stove, my grandpa quietly setting the table, the radio softly playing in the background.

What stood out today was the soy sauce. Back then, theirs wasn’t store-bought. It came in glass bottles, homemade by an old man who crafted it in small batches and sold it in the neighbourhood. It had a rich, mellow taste that somehow made everything better—even the simplest noodles.

It’s funny how food does that—anchors you to moments long gone. A bowl of noodles can hold a whole memory, a whole childhood.

And today, it did.