My favorite soup lives deep in my memory. There was a noodle bar near my home when I was a child. Everyday, a couple would rise as early as the sun to make noodle and cook a giant box of broth.
The broth container was the same height as the little me. The broth was made of water in which bones simmered for days and days. Once a customer come, the husband would throw a bundle of raw noodle into the broth and fish out the cooked noodle with a pair of super long chopsticks.
As I was the best friend with the couple’s children, they were happy to offer me a bowl of free noodle when I sneaked into their store, which was also the family’s home.
When you are a child, you don’t ask how the amazing soup is made. You just drink it and go home with a big smile on your face. You expect they will always live in this place, rising and cooking everyday, like the sun.
I never really understood how things changed. One day, the couple moved into a tinier place, as they could not afford the rising rent anymore. Their children, a boy who claimed he would marry me one day when we grew up, and a girl who was always trying to run as fast as we could, even though she was only half our age and half of our height, disappeared from my life without a single trace.
The soup, along with the smooth taste of the noodle, was gone with them.
I buried my childhood, with the lost taste of that soup, deep in my memory since then.