I had one that resembles Italian food. Meat, tomato, cheese and mushrooms kiss each other passionately inside a creamy blanket. Too rich, too strong, too much of everything that one bite too many left me bloated, bewildered, almost bulimic. I wish I hadn’t eaten that.
I had one that resembles American fast food. Fat buns with chubby meaty burger, decorated with a limp lettuce and sorry looking pickles. Too cheap, too greasy, too corny, I felt like the fattest girl on the block. Why the hell did I eat that?
I had one that resembles Japanese sashimi. Tastes like a million dollar. But no matter how much I ate, I felt like I hadn’t eaten anything. Too fat-free, too chic, too bland, too empty. Really, I should’ve eaten something else.
I had those that resemble meals from eateries that shouldn’t be allowed to open in the first place because their foods are so bad they’re bordering on poisonous. I must’ve been crazy to even try them.
Then I met you.
A home-cooked meal so wholesome and warm and simply lovely. A delicious simplicity that stand above the zest of hawker foods, or the glamour or world-class cuisines.
It’s like a meal that warmly greets me in the morning.
It’s like a meal that patiently awaits me after a busy day.
It’s the loveliest form of comfort food.
It’s what recharges me.
It’s the kind that makes me feel complete.
Dedicated to you, who handle my psychotic moments like a pro!
