Egg jam first on my young tongue, palm sugar
sweet, coconut milk rich. Thick layers on charred
toast, salted butter cubes between, melting in Penang
sweat. My Goh Ee Poh stood for hours stirring you
in that double boiled heat. Exports to be swaddled, 
twisted into pink and green plastic bags, nestled
amongst swimming costumes and sundresses, rituals
to ward off mid-air leaks in the 14 hours from one home
to the other. Back in England your layers thinned, 
our knives more sparing after each spread. 
After Goh Ee Poh grew too frail, aunties and uncles 
gifted us store-bought surrogates. You were labelled Kaya.
Our cupboards filled with your empties, aides-mémoire
of indulgence repurposed to house fragrant rice, Chinese 
mushrooms, our longing for Nonya flavours.
By the time pandan leaves arrive in Chinatown, I am grown
up, have my own kitchen where I can stand for hours.
But Goh Ee Poh has long since condensed
into photographs, so I sweeten my never-asked
regret, trace down someone else’s heirloom recipe.
You are needy, threaten lumps, failure, but I stir and stir
like her, until my spoon draws the right depths of lineage.
I lift a heap of you into my mouth, tongue 
your clotted grainy sweetness.