When I was a kid and the Lunar New Year rolled round the corner, I went home from school every day knowing that the smell of fresh pineapple tarts baking would greet me once I walked through the door.
My grandma – whom I call Mama – would have Milo tins filled with the tarts as she baked them, never managing to fill them to the brim because our naughty fingers would push these babies into our mouths as soon as they came out of the oven.
Even now that I’m grown and living 30,000 miles from home,
Mama never forgets how much I love these.
My jetsetting father makes the delivery.
This is what love is.