Use kitchen shears to open the packets of bumbu, kecap manis, and minyak goreng. Set aside the packet of bawang goreng for later. Dispense the seasonings into a tall-walled bowl. Make Indomie when nothing sounds good except for greasy noodles, slippery with sticky sweet soy sauce. Make Indomie when you miss mom. She lives in Arizona and you live in Texas. You are 29 and you haven’t talked to Mom in ten months. This interruption is the longest but not the first.

Boil the Indomie noodles on the stovetop. Place the brick of uncooked ramen in the saucepan. Mom would wait at the stove, her auburn box-dyed hair beautiful from overnight curlers. Pumpkin, come eat. You licked the insides of every bowl, nose kissed with kecap manis, Indonesia’s signature sweet and sticky soy sauce. The flavors resurrected pieces of you that you didn’t understand. Embalmed in a cowboy-loving town, you devoured Jakarta memories, round banquet tables with lazy Susans of steamed dumplings, their insides a mystery to everyone.

You don’t know the proper way to cook Indomie because Mom didn’t read the instructions on the white and red plastic wrapper, in Bahasa Indonesia or English. When Mom stopped speaking Bahasa Indonesia to you, at six or seven, did she know what you’d lose? You are five months into relearning your heritage language. Your tutor lives three hours from Jakarta—where you were born—and she sounds just like Mom. Mom doesn’t know you can read the Indomie instructions now; still, you prepare the noodles just like she would.

Wait for the noodles to soften, bounce. Mom said bubbles mean the water is boiling. How many bubbles, she didn’t say. How long, she didn’t specify. You and Mom would wait for an uncovered pot of water, a single flame on the 6-burner gas stove.

This is how you wait now: Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s, soon birthdays, mother’s day, and repeat. Who will break first? It is always you—it will be this time and the next. Maybe there is less to say in Bahasa Indonesia. The verb “to be” doesn’t exist in the language. How can you ask Mom what are we and what are we going to be? Your tutor says that context is everything. You infer based on who a speaker is talking to and their surroundings. Mom leaves two-minute voicemails from her iPhone, the swishes of limbs, slippers, and doors. You listen to 30 seconds for a clue that doesn’t exist. You want to hear her say pumpkin. This is your game. You write as you’re buckled into an airplane that hovers over Arizona, Mom, and the birthday she’ll celebrate in five hours. Your face mask is soggy from tears. You love her and you’re not sure she believes you. She wanders into your dreams, screams, humiliates you in front of a crowd, waits for your reaction.

Strain the noodles—this ramen is served without broth. Grab a spatula if you cannot bother with a strainer. Place the spatula against the lip of the saucepan, tilt to empty the water into the sink. Noodles might escape the makeshift strainer and that’s okay. Mom is with you, always, but her grip slackens; you stretch, you grow. It’s during this time that you awaken to a gentle voice from within: you would be missed if you were not here. For the first time, your existence isn’t a question.

Deposit the noodles into the bowl of seasonings from step one and mix. Add the packet of bawang goreng and extra from the red-lidded jar in the pantry. The crunch balances the plush noodles. It’s okay to use a fork, chopsticks aren’t required—there is nothing to prove here. Indonesians use a fork and spoon to eat, one utensil to push food into the other utensil. This is what you remember: one gives context to the other.