Ma and I went out shopping. Ma grabbed a trolley and zoomed past the fruit section. Then she stopped at a point and asked, "Do people put curry leaves and lemongrass in Kam Heong?"

  I tilted my head and remembered some restaurant used it so I nodded and said, "Yes, Ma."

  Ma stood there for a while then ordered me, "Go get the lemongrass."

  "What about curry leaves?"

  "Our neighbour planted curry leaves."

  "But it's theirs. If we take it, it would be stealing."

  "Child. It was planted on public ground. Public ground means 'Sharing is caring.'"

  "Is that why all our plants are indoor?"

  Ma didn't respond and continued to her next destination.

  At night, we gathered at the dining table. In the center sat the suspect: a chicken dish, red, oily, and radiating the unmistakable, sharp fragrance of the lemongrass I had retrieved under duress. It looked like Kam Heong. It smelled like Kam Heong. It practically screamed Kam Heong from the serving bowl.

  "How is the Kung Pao chicken?" Ma asked, her voice dangerously casual.

  Sis froze, her chopstick hovering mid-air. "Kung Pao?"

  She took a bite, chewed slowly, and looked like she was mentally writing her will. If she lasted long. "It... it doesn't taste like it."

  Kung Pao? My brain rewound the day's events. I remembered the trolley, the "public" curry leaves, and the specific request for lemongrass—an ingredient that has never, in the history of the universe, stepped foot inside a Kung Pao recipe.

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  I glanced at Ma's 'Mighty Hammer'—the heavy wooden meat tenderizer she kept on the sideboard like a royal scepter. It was a blunt-force instrument of destiny; the same one she used to crack open crabs with the terrifying precision of a guillotine, leaving the meat intact and the shells in another dimension. Should I risk it? I looked up. Ma was smiling, but it was the kind of smile a tiger gives a limping deer.

  "Ma..." I started, my voice small. I felt like I was navigating a minefield. "This tastes... surprisingly like Kam Heong. Almost exactly like it."

  Ma's eyes flickered. For a split second, the mask slipped. I saw the gears grinding as she realized she had mixed up her recipes. Her face twitched.

  She leaned closer, planting her elbows on the table—violating her own Rule Number One. Her expression went grim, her eyes widening until I could see the whites all the way around.

  Oh. My life. What have I done?

  Sis and I jerked back, certain the 'Hammer' was about to see some action.

  Then, Ma's shoulders dropped. She let out a dry, airy chuckle.

  "It was a test," she said, picking up her bowl. "I wanted to see if your palates were becoming lazy. You passed. Why so much fear?"

  Sis nodded solemnly, the way people do when they don’t actually believe what they’ve just been told but are grateful to still be alive.

  We stared at each other, trading silent pleas we weren’t sure the other understood. Silence held. We glanced at Ma. Then back at each other. Ah. There’s no escape.

  The corners of our mouths twitched. Reluctantly.

  Then we laughed. We laughed like people who had just been pardoned by a warlord. Peace was restored, but we both knew the truth: the Kam Heong was delicious, but the lie was the main course.

  After we washed our dishes, Ma retreated to her spice tray. I watched from the doorway as she pulled out a crumpled packet, torn at the top. The label read: Kam Heong Sauce.

  She stared at it for a long second, the blue light of the kitchen buzzing above her.

  "...Not my fault, really," she mumbled to the empty air, her pride refusing to sink with the dishes. "Both start with the letter K. Basically the same thing."

  She tossed the evidence into the bin and marched into the living room to lose herself in her dramas, leaving us with the lingering scent of lemongrass and the knowledge that when Ma was involved, even the alphabet knew better than to argue.