Deluge in bursts of flavourful the simplistic sauteed garlic, my hands gripped my trusty ladle, stirring the wok in order to maximise the fire. Not more than a few seconds, the fire roared gloriously as I added a copious amount of ginger into the flavour party, reminiscing the bread crumbs of the past.
I tossed the ingredients back and forth inside the wok, letting them tango with the flames, bringing out more of their intrinsic flavour, fuming the vicinity with the olden spicy flare. As I added the seasoned meat thinly covered in corn starch evenly into the hot stir of flavour.
The fire replied with a magnificent glare, searing the meat just nice for the next crucial process. Pushing and pulling the wok, the meat flew to the air, mixing with the remnants of smell and the fire.
Amp-ed up the fire, letting the ‘flower’ alcohol streamline into the wok. The fire licked the tip of the stream of alcohol, giving birth to a new flame arising into the air, consuming the fabric of reality into flames, ripping the stale air into a boiling wave of new life.
I deftly grabbed the metallic wok lid to capture all of the essence into the dish. Letting it sit in the fire for moments, rippling every single bit of the seasoning and garnish to seep entirely into the meat, brewing the rustic and the thick broth that will grant warmth in the coldest winter which will sink deep into the bones.
After a good wait, I opened the lid to reveal the dish, I dunked a spoon into the broth, took a sip of it, still a heaven and earth comparison with my grandma’s. I then took a piece of the meat and tasted it, shit. not even close.
I chugged the entire wok of dish into the trash filled with the thousands of failed outcomes, washed it ferociously, replayed the scenery of my grandma cooking that dish in the eyes of my mind.
Tears started to flow incessantly, streaking my cheeks with an immense regret of not jotting down the recipe. I attempted to picture the whole scene once again, it was blurry, I could not figure out what was happening, but the only thing I could remember was the smell and the taste of the dish which I could not recreate nor describe in real life.
I threw the wok into the basin, letting the water run through it as I slumped to the ground, crying in a cocooned fashion with the regrets that I could remember but could not taste anymore.