Some foods do not need to be complicated to stay in our memory.

Recently, I made a small bowl of chilled tofu at home in London. It was a very simple version: soft tofu, chopped zhacai, spring onion, soy sauce, sesame oil, and a little vinegar. No cooking, no heat, no long preparation.

It tasted fresh and comforting. But it was not the same as the chilled tofu my mother used to make in Shanghai.

When I was little, chilled tofu often appeared on our summer dinner table. It was never the main dish. In a Chinese family meal, tofu usually stayed on the side of the table, while the centre belonged to something richer: roast duck bought from the market, shrimp, braised dishes, or something heavier and more savoury.

But chilled tofu had its own place.

My mother would turn a whole box of soft tofu upside down onto a large metal plate. Then she would add many little things on top: preserved vegetables, century egg, dried shrimp, soy sauce, sesame oil, sometimes a tiny bit of chilli oil. There was always more sauce than I expected, perhaps because that was the way she understood flavour — generous, savoury, and a little uneven.

She was not what I would call a perfect cook. My father was the better cook in our family. My mother cooked in a more practical, everyday way.

Sometimes, the salt was not spread evenly. She would use a tiny spoon, add “just a little bit,” and somehow that little bit would all land in one corner of the dish. Then I would take one spoonful of tofu and suddenly taste a very salty bite.

I would complain, “Mum, you put too much salt again!”

And she would always say, “I only put a little.”

She was probably right. She did only put a little. But that little had chosen my spoon.

There were other surprises too. As a child, I often accidentally bit into ginger when eating other dishes. I hated that strong taste. Now, when I cook with ginger, I cut it into strange, large shapes so I can easily remove it before serving. It is funny how childhood complaints can become adult habits.

When I think back now, I realise something I did not understand as a child.

My mother may not have been a highly skilled cook, but she was trying. Even in a simple bowl of chilled tofu, she wanted the flavour to be richer. The tofu was soft. The century egg was deep and creamy. The zhacai was salty and crunchy. The dried shrimp added another layer of savoury taste. The sesame oil made everything fragrant.

She was building flavour in her own way.

My London version is much simpler. I do not always have century egg, dried shrimp, or many preserved ingredients at home. I use what I can find. The tofu here is also different — not as soft as the tofu I remember from Shanghai.

And yet, when soy sauce and sesame oil touch the tofu, something familiar returns.

For a moment, I am back at the summer dinner table. I can see the large plate of tofu, the sauce around the edges, the uneven salt, the rich little toppings, and my mother standing in the kitchen, insisting that she only added a little.

A recipe is not always about perfection.

Sometimes, it is about the hand that made it, the small mistakes we remember, and the taste that brings us home.

‍