The first time I remember the smell, we were still new to this country.

We'd left behind the heat of Singapore for a house that felt too large, too hollow, like it had been waiting for someone louder. Pale floorboards creaked under every step. The walls echoed when we spoke. There was a lemon tree in the backyard that dropped fat, overripe fruit onto the grass, and a corrugated tin shed leaning crooked in the back corner. I never went near it. Something about its slumped posture, the way shadows clung to its broken windows, unsettled me. Even in daylight, I imagined it breathing.

Inside, the house smelled mostly of unfamiliar things—timber, detergent, something that might have been dog. But on certain Sundays, the kitchen transformed. The air thickened with a scent I couldn't name back then—salt, fat, something ancient. My mother called it fried pork lard.

She made it from scratch, like her own mother had. And hers before her.

I was seven the first time I watched her cook it. The wok looked too big for the electric stove, and the cubes of pork fat too pale, too raw, to ever become something we'd eat. I sat at the table pretending to do homework, but really I was watching her. She moved like she was remembering, not cooking.

"Careful," she said. "The oil will jump if it gets angry."

I didn't understand what she meant. I thought she was warning me about heat.

Only much later did I realise she wasn't talking about the oil at all.

"My Ah mah used to make this," she said after a moment. "She'd render a whole jar at once and save it for weeks."

"Ah Ma?" I asked, trying to be sure.

She shook her head. "Your Lao Mah. My grandmother. You never met her."

I nodded, though the names tangled in my mind. In school, no one said "Po Po" or "Ah Ma." They said "Grandma," like one word could hold all grandmothers. But the names mattered to her. They carried shape and texture. Syllables that bent through generations.

"She raised me mostly," my mother added. "Your grandmother worked late—she was a nurse. I'd go to Ah Mah's flat after school, and she'd already have rice on the table. Always made lard. She said it gave everything flavor, even sadness."

She didn't smile when she said it. Just stirred, slow and steady, as the cubes of fat shriveled and browned in the oil. The crackling noise filled the kitchen like small fireworks.

I tried to imagine it: a different kitchen, in a different country, my mother as a child in a pleated skirt and white socks, swinging her legs under a table, watching someone else's hands move with memory. But I couldn't see it. I only knew this kitchen—the white laminate countertops, the crooked stove dial, the condensation on the windows.

That day, she strained the oil into a glass jar with a chipped rim. I watched the golden liquid slide through the sieve, thick with browned bits. She sealed the jar and wiped it clean like it was something sacred.

"We'll keep this in the fridge," she said. "Use just a little when you fry vegetables, or pour it over plain rice. Not too much. It's strong."

I didn't like the taste at first. Too rich. Too strange. But it lingered. It folded itself into every meal that mattered. And always—always—it reminded her of home.

Years passed. I got taller. I stopped speaking Mandarin unless I had to. I answered in English even when she didn't. My accent softened until it disappeared. We stayed in that house for a long time. The lemon tree kept blooming. The shed kept slouching deeper into the soil.

Every Mother's Day, my mother would wake early and make a fresh batch of lard.

One year, I found her already standing at the stove, the wok hissing. It was still morning. The house was quiet. Outside, the lemons hung like golden fists on the tree.

"She came to me last night," my mother said, her voice soft. "Ah mah. She told me I was stirring it too fast."

I didn't know what to say. I poured her a cup of tea.

"Do you still miss her?" I asked.

She looked up, surprised. Maybe she thought I'd stopped listening years ago.

"Every day," she said.

"I don't know how to miss someone like that," I admitted. "I don't even know what her voice sounded like."

She didn't answer right away. She stirred, scraped the bottom of the wok with the wooden spoon. The oil spat and settled. Then she said, "You'll know, one day. When I'm gone, you'll understand."

Her words stayed with me long after the scent faded from the air.

This year, I tried making it myself.

I found a butcher who didn't ask too many questions. I sliced the fat into cubes, just like she did. I placed the wok on my own stove—smaller, newer—and waited for the crackle. The oil jumped. I stirred too fast.

I burned the bottom.

But still—still—the scent was perfect. It filled the apartment, clung to my hair, wrapped itself around my ribs.

I sat by the stove and waited, watching the fat dissolve into something golden. I remembered the shed. The lemon tree. The way my mother's voice softened when she spoke of Po Po, and how she folded memory into flavor like it was the only way she knew how to keep them close.

When it was done, I poured the oil into a jar and let it cool. I pressed my palm to the warm glass.

I still don't know how to miss someone I never met. But I'm learning how to keep them.

One spoon at a time.