Chicken broth

Dada makes the best bowl of chicken broth this side of the equator In July, we have it one night a week. To beat the European disease.  Influuuuuuuuuuuenzaaaaaaaaa.

My mah-mah gave this broth to my Dada, who gives it to me, and I hope to give it to mini-me. 

In Singapore, Dada says that mah-mah would buy herbs that were from Hong Kong and queue up at the fish-market to bargain for the best fleshy fishy pieces of abalone—I believe we call it Paua here—and huge seedless dates.  She would sit by the stove, fanning her brew in its clay-pot night and day.  My Dad didn’t need that much cod-liver oil as a result.  So he loves his chicken broth. 

In New Zealand, Dada complains that he can never find the herbs he wants.  And we have to use almonds and red dates from a packet.  ‘Can you imagine?’ Dada grumbles.  Almonds are good for hair and complexion.  ‘Makes your hair shiny, and makes your skin glow’ Dada says, Red dates are good for your eyes.  ‘Even better than carrots’ Dada says.  But the Paua Dad buys are tiny…small mouthfuls.  Dada says the abalone Mah-mah used to buy, that from Malaysia are way bigger.  ‘It’s the cold Pacific water’, Dad says, ‘All the nice fat abalone have migrated up the ocean.’  The smell of chicken broth is the best thing in the world.  The whiff of Chinese rice wine is the thing that smacks you on the nostrils.  It actually sobers me.  It is deep and mellow, like the sound of a pipa. The scent is like gasoline, lighting the fire in my blood.  Dada adds slices and slices of garlic, ginger and onion to the mixture.  ‘Good for your circulation’ Dada says.  Everything is good for my circulation.  It seems.  Good for the chicken’s circulation.  It lies poaching in its sauna bath.

My friends at school have all grown up believing chicken broth is a creamy-yellow, smooth and thick. I’ve grown up with a different bowl of broth…a brew that is clear; caramel-coloured, with pearly almonds, fiery red dates and other secret golden ingredients swimming in it.  It is thinner, but it is richer.  Dada loves to watch me lap up my broth.  The only sound coming from me for the longest time is the spoon!-tapping!-against!-bowl!.  My cheeks and lips are a bold red when I put my bowl down.  My eyes are bright, like a light in my head has just been switched on.  I smile a baby-smile.  I am like xi.  I am like an ang-pow, Red and gold.  Filled with promise.  I am good luck.  Life has been restored. 

The life of my mah-mah who gave chicken broth to my Dada, who gives it to me, that I hope to give to mini-me.