Time taken: 4-ish years (no shortcuts, I checked)

Serves: anyone and everyone

Ingredients

• 1 1/2 cup desire to grow
• A pinch of academic discipline
• 1 cup patience
• Persistence (as much as you’ve got)
• 1/2 cup confidence (don’t worry, it rises as it bakes)
• 1 cup empathy
• 3/4 cup loyalty
• A hefty dollop of happiness
• Sleep deprivation (this one measures itself)
• 2 cups alcohol sparkling grape juice (you’ll need it sooner or later. I don’t make the rules.)
• 1 1/2 cup butter (because you simply cannot bake a comforting recipe without butter. Non-negotiable.)

Now hold on. Before y’all come for me, yes, I see it too. Not a single metric measurement in sight. And normally, I would NEVER condone volumetric measurement. There’s room for way too much variability. You can either pack a cup real tight or scoop in far too little. Chaos, honestly.

But for this recipe? I think it works. Because you know what, there will always be variability in life. You’ll over-pour some things, under-measure others, forget an ingredient entirely, and maybe even toss in something that wasn’t on the list. And that’s the beauty of this recipe. It will still turn out perfect. Maybe not the kind of perfect you planned, but the kind you needed.

Now this isn’t just any pie. It’s a special pie. A magic pie, if there ever was one. What’s the magic of this pie, you ask? Every slice tastes different. Sometimes it’s all sweetness, like a warm chocolate pie. Sometimes it’s really sour, like a lemon meringue pie–the kind that makes your face scrunch up and wonder why on earth did I sign up for this. And then sometimes, oh, sometimes, it’s that perfect blend of sweet and tart that makes you want to lean back in your chair, close your eyes, and just savour it. Analogous to, in my humble opinion, the coconut-pineapple cream pie.

But as with any good food, it tastes better when you share it. More hands around the table, more flavour in every bite. A slice for the first person you meet on campus and one for the roommate who wakes you up for that 6 AM PE class neither of you wanted to go to. A slice for those who stayed up with you to finish the TA assignment together, and for those with whom you shared midnight chai and BBCs. Pass a fork to the one who dragged you to the swimming pool and kept your fitness goals in check. To be honest though, the canteen trips after the workout never really helped with the weight-loss. A big chunk for the lab partners who made cycling all the way to NCL worth it (I was lucky enough to have good ones, most of the time). A slice for the girls who always pull you out of your head and gas you up like nobody else can. 

A chunk for the best friend who’s been around since the very first year. You grew up together without even realising it. And lastly a big, massive slice to the one who makes you feel special and whose presence makes every gloomy day feel like sunny meadows. Maybe that was too cheesy, but love does that to ya. And I’m not just talking about the romantic kind. I’ve been blessed enough to have platonic friendships that I consider as close as family. To quote Eleanor Young: “There is a Hokkien phrase, 自己人 (‘Kakilang’). It means our own kind of people…”(Crazy Rich Asians fans, y’all know what comes next, but that’s not where I’m going). Well, I found mine.

But (and here’s the part nobody warned me about) the pie must come to an end.

These last few pieces are the bittersweet ones. The ones that make you slow down, chew a little longer, and set your fork down between bites. You take a deep breath and the aroma hits you. Walking into the next room to start a deep conversation none of you knew enough about. Cooking in shitty hostel rooms. All those canteen trips that nobody photographed because you were all too busy with life. It smells like pure nostalgia.

Towards the end, tears will be shed for the last remaining bits. For those good old days and the people who were there in them. Tears will be shed for everyone, no matter how much distance existed, no matter what judgement passed between you, tears are still shed. Because here’s the thing: bit by bit, they’ve all taken pieces of this pie with them. Some people taking bigger pieces than others. Some people taking pieces they don’t even know they took: a mannerism picked up, a phrase that stuck, a song that can’t be heard without thinking of them.

Over the years, I realised one thing–don’t share it all with others. Keep a slice for yourself. It’s your pie too. You baked this thing. You measured the ingredients with shaky, uncertain hands and somehow made something worth tasting. You deserve to sit with a piece of it, alone, in the quiet, and think: yeah, that was pretty good.

Now my college pie? It’s already over. Crumbs on the plate, tin scraped clean. So I can’t give you a taste of it–I wish I could. But I can certainly leave you with a glimpse of what it tasted like: warm, messy, occasionally burnt around the edges, unreasonably delicious, and gone way too fast.

So to you. Yes, you. the one still baking, or the one just pulling yours out of the oven, or the one who hasn’t even preheated yet: don’t skip the weird ingredients. Don’t be afraid of the sour slices. Don’t eat alone when you don’t have to, but do learn to enjoy your own company at the table.

And what do you know, it’s already time to make another pie.

New kitchen, new oven, ingredients you haven’t even heard of yet. A little terrifying, a little thrilling. But that’s alright. You’ve done this before. You know how to measure with your heart instead of a scale.

Roll up your sleeves, dust the flour off your hands, and get to it.