The first thing I remember is the smell of garlic hitting hot oil; sharp, then soft, filling the kitchen before anything else begins.
I was always standing too close to the stove. My mother would nudge me back, but never far. One day, she placed a pinch of salt in my hand. The grains clung to my fingers, rough and uneven. I tasted it without thinking. She laughed, not to stop me, but to let me continue.
I think that was how I began learning.
There were no recipes in our kitchen. Just rhythm.
Oil. Garlic. Then whatever came next. A handful of vegetables. A splash of soy sauce. The quiet sound of something simmering before it became a meal.
Sometimes I stirred, unsure. She would take the ladle, stir once, and return it. No explanation, just a small correction I was meant to feel, not memorise.
That was how balance was taught.
Too much salt, and everything tightened. Too little, and something felt missing. The right amount didn’t announce itself. It settled quietly.
Even now, I still pause mid-stir. I taste. I adjust. I wait.
What we cooked was never just one tradition.
Soy sauce from Chinese kitchens. Sambal carrying Malay warmth. Coconut milk softening everything into something gentler. No one explained it, it simply existed that way.
Singapore food has always been like this. Not loud about where it comes from, but deeply shaped by it.
There were no big moments when I suddenly understood cooking.
Just small ones.
The first time I recognised the sound of oil ready.
The first time I adjusted seasoning without asking.
The first time my mother tasted my food and said nothing, which meant it was right.
I’ve come to realise that learning My Taste of Singapore isn’t about mastering dishes.
It’s about paying attention.
To the pauses.
To the quiet gestures.
To the things that repeat until they become part of you.
Sometimes, it begins with something as simple as salt on your fingers.
💌 With curious taste buds,
Eda Wong
