A Box of Pastries

There’s nothing quite like coming home after a long day to find a box of pastries on the counter–today, it's an assortment of sticky toffee brownies and sugar-dusted croissants. A knife sits on the edge, already smudged with crumbs, courtesy of my dad, no doubt. It’s “surgery,” as he likes to call it. He always beats me to the box, slicing off a piece of everything. I grab a small portion–just enough to taste–enjoying the salty sweetness of the brownie and the buttery flakiness of the croissant. But it's not just the taste that makes this moment special. It's knowing my mom, in the midst of her busy day, thought of me when she picked them up, and my dad had already taken the time to slice the pastries as if setting aside a bit of joy for me. That's the thing about delight. It sneaks up in the smallest of moments–often mundane, barely noticeable at the time–and yet, somehow, it strikes a chord deep down, evoking memories and bringing a warmth that lingers far longer than expected.

Sunday mornings as a kid were like that too. I’d wake up to the familiar blare of my dad’s Bose stereo in the corner of my room, blasting his favorite Motown and Beatles tracks from the iPod. It was our Sunday morning ritual, one loud enough to pull me and my two brothers from our racecar beds. One by one, we were pulled out of bed and dressed in matching polos and shorts–our mom’s way of keeping us coordinated. Then, like a tiny, neatly dressed brigade, we’d march down to Tanglin Mall for brunch. At the bakery, the pastries lined the shelves, just waiting for us. My dad, ever the creature of habit, would order his standard plate of over-easy eggs and toast, while I, still figuring out what I liked, would stare at the display, torn between the sticky cinnamon roll and the chocolate croissant. But it didn’t really matter what I picked, because the moment the food hit the table, all bets were off. My brothers and I would inevitably start stealing bits of each other’s plates, sampling whatever we didn’t get to order ourselves. And of course, my dad, with his plate of innocent-looking eggs and toast, was the mastermind behind the operation–pretending not to care while casually sampling from every dish at the table. I didn’t notice it at the time, but looking back, moments like these demonstrated the mix of my upbringing. The Western idea of decadent pastries and this new thing called brunch somehow blended with my mom’s Asian roots, where communal dining was second nature. Those outings were more than a chance to eat: they brought us closer together as a family, blending traditions and flavors into a rhythm that just felt right. 

Eventually, this rhythm carried into our own kitchen. My mom’s well-loved recipe binder was at the heart of every baking adventure we embarked on. The binder, once white, had turned a soft yellow—not from age, but from the flour, sugar, and butter that had crusted into its corners over years of use. It was packed with a chaotic mix of printed New York Times recipes and hand-written treasures passed down from my grandmother. Each page was a story in itself, stained with grease spots, marked with smudged handwriting, and sprinkled with notes like “use more butter,” a testament to her years of baking. And, of course, there was that lingering scent of vanilla extract, deceptively sweet until you learned (the hard way) that it tasted like soap. When we were finally old enough to earn the privilege to bake from it ourselves, it felt like we’d hit some sort of milestone. As kids, we used to just watch her work, mesmerized by how she moved around the kitchen–effortlessly weighing ingredients, whisking, shaping dough, and icing with the precision of an artist. But eventually, we got to flip through those worn-out pages ourselves, picking out which recipe we’d tackle next. The kitchen became our laboratory, and whether it was simple chocolate chip cookies or an ambitious lemon tart, we’d get right to work, splattering batter across the kitchen. By all accounts, our chaotic methods shouldn’t have worked. But somehow, every bake turned out perfectly thanks to my mom’s quiet guidance from the sidelines. Somehow, even with flour on the ceiling, everything turned out just right.

Food, pastries, baking, and family time have always been central to my life, though I didn't often realize it at the moment. As I get older, those moments of sitting around a table together, or standing in the kitchen covered in flour, have become fewer. But I've started to cherish them more–the small gestures like a box of pastries on the counter or the smell of something baking in the oven remind me of when life was a little simpler, a little sweeter. These little delights, like the pastries my mom picks up or the recipes we attempted from that yellowed binder, are more than just a bite of joy. They’re a way of sampling those memories all over again, of slicing off a piece of the past and sharing it, even now.
My mom always believed in bringing a treat when meeting someone new–whether it be a playdate, formal meeting, or anything in between. She said it sparked a small delight in others, just like it did for us. I didn’t always appreciate those moments as much as I should have, but looking back now, I wish I could go back and savor them all a little more–treats in hand, ready to share that same little warmth.