A day-walk through the market with mom. Past the slick, silky fishes, past the veggies wilting in the Malaysian humidity, past the briskets of beefs and lamb hocks hanging on hooks. Turning the corner into the tofu stall.

The uncle plunged his hand into the water, sloshing the water around, and scoops up these pearlescent, supple blobs. He handled them gently, slowly, belying his stocky frame. “They look like mozzarella”, I thought to myself. “But no, this is a tofu shop.” My hands reached out for them, cuddling them in my palms. They were silken, softer, and suppler than any mozzarella. My mind blown, we bought half a dozen of them home.

That afternoon, I brought the baubles of tofu out of their water bath in the fridge. A 6-minute steam, a dash of dashi and soy, a flurry of fried garlic and spring onion slivers later, they gleamed on the plate. I cut them open, the bulbous balls cleaved cleanly into quarters. They were more supple than mozzarella, more bursting than Go Noodle’s bursting meatballs, more satisfying than Christmas baubles.

They were lunch.