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In Cambodia life, Expat Life, Food and Remembrance, Sreisaatv2, Uncategorized

Homesick Recipes, Entry 1: Pancit Canton

Author CzarinaPosted on Leave a comment

I called in sick today. Nothing serious – just that mix of fatigue, fever, and fuzziness that makes you want to curl up under a blanket. But sick days as an expat in Cambodia don’t come with the luxury of switching off completely. Emails still pile up, messages still need replies, and before I knew it, my “sick day” had morphed into a sick-work-from-home arrangement. 😅

Whenever I feel poorly, my body and my heart both crave the familiar. For me, that means food from home. Today, the answer was pancit canton.

Picked this up for just US $3.40 (240 g pack) at Royal Mart, TTP. Not bad at all!
Can’t cook? No problem. The instructions are right there on the packet — easy-peasy! 

Now, my version was stripped-down — the poor (wo)man’s pancit — just a handful of chicken cut into small pieces, some cabbage, and carrots. Basic, but comforting. If my dad or brother were here, it would be a whole different affair. Their pancit canton is legendary, brimming with prawns, chicken liver, squid balls, chorizo, and even lechon belly. A fiesta in a wok. Mine, by contrast, is basic. Minimalistic (kasi fecha de peligro, iykyk…) and felt more like a quiet, comforting hug. Luckily for me, and other Filipinos here, pancit canton noodles are now sold in local stores here in Phnom Penh. I just followed the instructions on the back of the pack. Easy-peasy, no stress.

That’s the beauty of pancit canton. It doesn’t need to be extravagant to work its magic. Filipinos eat it at any time of day — breakfast, lunch, dinner, or merienda. And true to our love affair with carbs, it’s often paired with rice or pan de sal (yes, noodles with bread or rice, carbs-on-carbs, y’all ), and chased with an ice-cold Coke. Always best finished with a squeeze of kalamansi or lime, that citrusy kick instantly brightens the dish.

But here’s why pancit canton is more than just stir-fried noodles. It’s a cultural shorthand for family, gathering, and celebration. In the Philippines, noodles symbolise long life, so pancit always appears at birthdays, fiestas, Christmas, and New Year’s. Every household has its own signature version — some lush and festive, others simple and practical, but all of them are loaded with memory. Kitchens buzzing with chatter and laughter, unexpected guests welcomed with a quick stir-fry, midnight hunger pangs solved in one wok.

Today, standing in my Phnom Penh apartment with my pared-down pancit, I felt a little bit of that warmth (no, it’s not the weather! lol). It wasn’t just food. It was a link to my parents’s kitchen, to family meals back home, to traditions that make me feel rooted even when I’m far away.

This is the first of what I’m calling my Homesick Recipes — a small archive of the dishes that keep me grounded as a homesick expat. Some are simple, some celebratory, but all carry the flavour of home.

Stay tuned — next time, I might tell you about the time I made adobo with Vietnamese soy sauce and a dash of improvisation.

In Food and Remembrance, Grief and Loss, Memories and Healing, Sreisaatv2, Up Close and Personal

Runny yolks and the unfinished business of grief

Author CzarinaPosted on Leave a comment

It’s been a while, hasn’t it? My blog has been largely silent since September of last year. I was quite poorly then, and honestly, didn’t have the energy to add blogging to my already hectic work schedule. My general health just wasn’t cooperating. So, I focused entirely on getting myself well again, and I’m happy to say that the inspiration to put thoughts to digital paper has finally returned.

The rhythm of life here in Phnom Penh, after more than two decades, already feels like a second skin. My days are usually a whirlwind of desk work, meetings, community visits, and the beautiful, chaos of Cambodian life. Yet, sometimes, in the quiet moments when you’re on your own at the end of the day, between the bustling streets, the barks of my dogs, and the hum of my ceiling fan, a different kind of quiet settles in.

Today was one of those days.

It started innocently enough. A tray of eggs and a forgotten pack of sliced bread on the counter, both nearing their expiration date. My immediate thought was, “Right, time to use these up.” And so, a classic runny yolk and toast dip came to be. For someone who isn’t particularly fond of eggs, this was purely a practical exercise.

But as I broke the first yolk and dipped a piece of toast into its golden richness, a door to the past gently creaked open.

Unresolved Echoes.
My mother passed away five years ago. Five years. And to be brutally honest, I’m still not sure I’ve properly grieved. Perhaps I’ve unconsciously ignored it, or maybe it’s just my own peculiar coping mechanism, a way my body and mind protect themselves from something too overwhelming. I truly don’t know.

There are days, like today, when a wave of melancholy washes over me, slowly, insidiously, until it morphs into an intense sadness. And when you’re thousands of miles away from family, from the familiar faces and comforting voices of home, with no one to truly talk to about these deep-seated feelings, the pen becomes your closest confidante. My journal, filled with hurried scrawls and raw emotions, is where these moments find their release.

This morning, as the scent of coffee and boiled eggs filled my tiny kitchen, those memories didn’t just drift in; they flooded me. I was instantly transported back to my university holidays, those quiet semestral breaks when my younger siblings were still off at school. It was just her and me, sharing simple boiled egg breakfasts. She’d sit across the table, crocheting, occasionally glancing up at me, her eyeglasses perilously perched on her long nose—oh, how we envied that “Western” nose only our brother, the Banker, inherited! Her presence was a comforting anchor, and she’d gently remind us to savour every morsel and never let food go to waste.

What I realise now, with the painful clarity of hindsight, is how much I value those moments. We weren’t just mother and daughter then, sharing breakfasts; we were more like friends. After months away in Cebu City for university, those breakfasts became our quiet confessional when I came home, a space where we could truly connect and confide in each other, rebuilding the bridge that distance had stretched.

Oh, how I miss those moments now, as an adult living a life so far removed from those simple mornings. The older I get, and the longer I’ve been away from home, the more these specific, unassuming memories take on immense weight. It’s not just the food; it’s the quiet companionship, the unspoken understanding, and the feeling of being truly home in her presence.

Sometimes, especially when you’re alone and far from loved ones, it’s these random, ordinary things that bring the most profound memories and reflections. Just as Adam Levine bleats in their song, Memories, “…memories bring back you…” And for that, I am grateful that, even if only for a short time, I brought Mama back again this morning.