Mama Instant Noodles Shrimp Flavor (Tom Yum). That squeaky wrinkle sound became pleasing when I tore open the foil packaging. I dumped the brick of ramen and the powder of spices into a bowl, and my fingers darted to the switch on my electric kettle. I now had only a minute to get everything ready.

I scurried from the counter to the stove, cranking my head right over the pot with gray veils of air and bursting bubbles. As I lifted the lid, the steam shot out at my face. I flinched before remembering someone saying that steam is good for the pores. I soaked my face in the sauna, until it suddenly hit me that my whole meal would be ruined if I overcooked this.

I snatched the ladle and scooped out the egg, rushing to the sink and taking a breath as a stream of cool water cascaded over the white oval. I needed to peel off the shell without burning my fingers. Once I peeled the egg down to its glossy bareness, I juggled it to my cutting board, pushed aside the shredded lettuce, and cut it in half. The knife sliced through clean, unleashing the egg’s glory of trickling gold.

A click sounded from the kettle. I hurried to pour the hot water over the ramen, watching with wide eyes as the noodles melted and glimmered and drifted in the water. I gave the noodles a quick swirl and plopped in some Vienna sausages, then topped the ramen off with a garnish of crisp lettuce and the gorgeous runny egg. Instant ramen made gourmet. Well, instant ramen that isn’t sad, but a little bit beautiful.

I rested the bowl of ramen on the dining table, where Modern Family awaited me on my iPad. Dipping my spoon into the broth, gathering the fitting amount of noodles, and holding a sausage or piece of egg with my chopsticks, I stuffed my mouth with the different ingredients that would meet and whose diverse flavors would marry—all while keeping an eye on the Dunphy family’s antics. In a matter of minutes, I scarfed down the entire bowl. It took much more time to prepare the ramen than to eat it.

—

My family and I sat down together for dinner on some Sundays, when my dad was off and my mom came home at 6 p.m. instead of 8 p.m. Freshly-cooked meals were a rare occasion in my family.

There were multiple announcements from my parents and grandma that dinner was ready. The aroma of smoked barbecue that wafted into my room dragged me out, where I was intent on seeing what exactly was for dinner. My brother and I met at the table, hastily sitting down to revel in baby back ribs, steamed rice fresh out of the cooker, and damp emerald cucumbers. My grandma was already nibbling her food, eyes held on us chomping away. The horrific sight of our feast actually put a smile on her face.

My parents took advantage of this time together to exchange news or stories, with my grandma’s input here and there. Perhaps it was the food that comforted them just enough to open up, or the family surrounding them, or how food gathered everyone together. Often, they told of their pasts in Vietnamese, trying to shield my non-speaking self and brother from their sadnesses. I focused on discerning the words. While I was secured by my privileges in America and would never fully fathom their stories, I wanted to hear their voices—the vessels of my community, my culture, my heritage. I never felt more attuned to my surroundings than during these moments of full attention and vulnerability.

—

I hold myself to a commitment in college: At least once a day, make sure that you spare time to sit down in a dining hall and enjoy a meal with others. Be engrossed in dialogue, when eating requires everyone to pay attention. Let the act of eating bring you all together to feel at ease with each other and talk with eagerness. Remember the memories and stories borne by food and eating together. If the food is good, savor the flavors. If it’s not, humble yourself knowing that you will always be able to satiate your hunger. Stay grounded in the world around you.

—

Every time I eat instant ramen, my mom’s story pops into my mind: When she made a little extra money from selling food in the street market, she would buy a packet of instant noodles. That was her childhood splurge. I no longer think that instant ramen can be sad. It can be quite beautiful.

I ask my mom for her family recipes; I want to have mementos of my family and preserve my favorites from childhood. But she shrugs her shoulders, revealing that she doesn’t follow instructions but instead, her memories of making a dish. Even more reason for me to record the recipes.

The ingredients she uses can leave a funny smell in the house, so she cooks in our outdoor kitchen. When the heat beats at my forehead and the single slice of toast doesn’t help my dizziness, I fall back inside and collapse onto a chair. But I remember that, to my mom, a daughter’s pursuit of her mother’s recipes is an utter delight. I think about how I will commemorate her as I cook these meals, to share with others not only a wonderful taste, but also a slice of my story with food. And even when my family cannot be there, their presence can be found in the recipes. I can be with both family and friends through food. I remember, so I lift myself up and go to her.