The tale of the ramen bowl @thefattybaomum

A soupy goodness brimming, simmering, gurgling with warmth sat on the stove. She stirred it lovingly, clockwise and then anti-clockwise. The aroma of the flavours and spices filled the air, encircling her happy bubble. Two little hands appeared out of nowhere and said, “Mummy, I’m hungry!” She kissed the hands and said, “Just a little more time.” The long lines of noodles meandered in the broth, soaking in the sauces while plump grains of corn floated in it. It was finally ready. Her mouth watered as she poured the rich mix into a bowl and pressed the buzzer. She hadn’t had a morsel since the morning. “Table number 42,” she yelled. A waiter appeared magically to take the bowl away. But the cauldron still had some of the love in it. She poured every last drop into the bowl and kept it on the window sill. The tiny hands grabbed the bowl and slurped away the noodles in glee. Sometimes, even the head chef went hungry—after all, she was a mother.

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