Growing up in Singapore meant being surrounded by some of the world’s most vibrant cuisines. With Malaysia, Thailand, and Indonesia just a relatively short bus, plane or ferry ride away, weekend trips often came with new twists on familiar flavours; different balances of spice, sweetness, and heat that reflected each place’s character. We didn’t travel much because the restaurant kept us very busy, and school holidays often looked like 10am to 10pm shifts. By age eleven, I was practically running the drinks stall (don’t worry, I was food-safety trained).
On the rare occasions we could escape for a short trip, food was always the focus. My mum would sample dishes with an attentive eye, noting flavours and textures that might inspire her next seasonal menu. My brother and I joined in, turning every meal into a guessing game: was that hint of sweetness from palm sugar or tamarind? Was the warmth in the Rendang from cinnamon or clove? Penang Laksa, Pad Kra Pao, Gudeg, Hor Mok Pla — every dish became a puzzle, layered with lemongrass, galangal, coconut milk, and just enough chilli to make you sweat a little.
Our kitchen shelves became a scrapbook of flavours...
My mum preferred practical mementoes over decorative ones, so instead of keychains or magnets, we were both allowed to bring home either a bottle of sauce or a spice mix. It was useful, edible, and best of all, justifiable as “menu research.” Our kitchen shelves became a scrapbook of flavours with varied jars of sambal, packets of laksa and rendang paste, and tins of massaman curry paste; souvenirs that never stayed long before being stirred and savoured away.
That habit never left me. When I visited Italy this summer, I found myself scouring shops for dehydrated sauce mixes of carbonara and amatriciana (considering Ryanair’s 100ml carry-on limit). Back home, stirring one into a pan of pasta brought back beautiful memories of my trip. After all, the best souvenirs don’t always stay on a shelf. Sometimes they live in jars, simmer in a saucepan, and taste like a memory you can eat.