No matter what big cuisine or delicatessen I’ve had
during the day. At midnight and in the dark
I’d feel my way to the kitchen. Sharp eyes of an owl,
homing instinct of a pigeon. Digging in the pantry
for pot noodles I’ve recently bought.
Kettle on. Water boiling. White steam
evaporates in the air.
The smell, the taste, transports me
to another time, another place.
The childhood when I learned to make pot noodles without
getting burnt while Mum and Dad were at work.
The school days where the canteen food was never
enough for a growing body and stomach.
The university days when a pot of noodle was the only
way for two men to share a brief moment of intimacy.
The years I’ve lived outside China and become disillusioned
with fish fingers, fried potatoes, boiled veggies.
The discussions, rows even, between you and me about ready-
made food containing preservatives, bad for health.
No sage advice can deter my passion for pot noodles.
On cold nights like this, I’d open the lid and let the spicy
soup and smooth noodle swim in my body,
warm up a thousand cold nights away from home,
from Mum’s hands, lovers’ kisses.
After devouring the noodle, I pour the soup down
the drain, hide the pot in the bin, then tiptoe upstairs,
feeling content and accomplished, as if I’ve just
left the crime scene with a perfect alibi.
In the bedroom, you are still sound sleep.
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