Author: Chen Yu-An 陳禹安
On my very first day of school, it was Grandpa who held my hand and walked me there. At the time, I was carrying a colourful little backpack that was bigger than my back. The morning sunlight spilled down from the edge of the roof, lighting up Grandpa’s wide, smiling face. The wrinkles on his face were like gentle rivers, quietly flowing into my childhood.
From kindergarten onward, every day after school at exactly four o’clock, I was always the first child to be picked up. That was because Grandpa was always waiting for me at the school gate, holding the small snacks I loved; sometimes egg cakes, sometimes little biscuits with Yakult. No matter whether it was windy, rainy, scorching hot, or pouring with rain, Grandpa would always be there on time. Then, with his gentle yet steady hand, he would hold mine and walk me home, hopping and skipping all the way.
On the walk home, I loved telling Grandpa everything that had happened at school. What story the teacher said that day, which classmate snatched whose toy, what I dreamed during nap time, and what I ate for lunch and snacks. Grandpa always listened with a smile, occasionally responding with an “Oh?” or “Is that so?” His laughter was the most familiar melody of my childhood.
Even before stepping into Grandma’s house, I could already smell the food in the air. Grandma was always afraid I would be hungry when I got home, and she insisted that I eat hot, freshly cooked meals. So, Grandpa and Grandma timed everything perfectly: while Grandpa went to pick me up, Grandma would begin preparing the ingredients. My job was to sit on the sofa and help Grandma change TV channels. Whenever I saw something interesting on TV, I would shout excitedly toward the kitchen to tell her about it. Even though this happened more than ten years ago, the memories are still vivid. I clearly remember that at three o’clock we watched Queen (女人我最大), at four I could watch cartoons for an hour, at five it was cooking shows, at six health programs, and at seven it was Grandpa’s turn to watch the news.
In the evening, I would help Grandma cook. Of course, my “help” mostly meant doing small tasks. Grandma chopped vegetables, while I handed her bowls and chopsticks, and sometimes helped beat eggs. My favourite dish was Grandma’s steamed egg. Its smooth surface looked like golden pudding, melting in my mouth the moment I took a bite. The fragrance spread gently across my tongue. Grandma always said, “Steamed egg needs just the right heat, too long and it becomes tough, too quick and it’s undercooked.” As she spoke, she would lightly tap the pot lid with her finger, as if listening to a melody that belonged only to our home. That’s when I learned that behind such a simple dish lay not only skill, but Grandma’s love. Once the steamed egg entered your mouth, it was soft, tender, and comforting.
One time, I caught a cold and had a fever, and I had no appetite all day. Grandma brought me a bowl of steaming hot egg, but this time it was different. She had added a little sugar. It was Grandma’s special sweet steamed egg. She sat beside me and said softly, “This way it’s sweet, and you’ll be able to eat more.” I ate spoonful by spoonful. The sweetness mixed with the egg’s aroma, spreading warmth straight from my heart. I was still too young then to understand what “love” was. I only knew that Grandma’s steamed egg was the most comforting taste in the world.
After my younger sister was born, the house became even livelier. Grandma had to take care of both of us at the same time and was often so busy that sweat soaked her back, yet she never complained. When I came home from school, she still greeted me with a smile and asked, “Did the teacher praise you for being good today?” Sometimes my sister also fell sick and lost her appetite, and Grandma would make that sweet steamed egg again, dividing it equally between the two of us. She would say, “If you eat something sweet, the illness will run away.”
And so, time passed day by day, carried along by the aroma of steamed egg.
Even now, when I occasionally go back to Grandma’s house on weekends, I still ask her to make steamed egg for me. Her hands tremble a little now, but the taste has never changed. The silky egg, the faint sweetness, the gentle steam. It feels as if it carries me back to those carefree afternoons of childhood.
I have grown up now. Grandpa’s steps have slowed, and Grandma can no longer spend much time in the kitchen. But whenever I think of the flavours of my childhood, the image that appears in my mind is always that bowl of steamed egg. It is the taste of home, the taste of love, and a tenderness I will never forget for the rest of my life.
Sometimes, late at night, I wonder: what if one day I can no longer eat Grandma’s steamed egg? Perhaps I will learn to make it the way she did. Steaming it with the gentleness she taught me, seasoning it with the love she left behind. Then, in that one silky mouthful, I will once again smell Grandma’s smile and hear her soft reminder:
“Eat slowly, don’t burn yourself.”
我上學的第一天，是阿公牽著我的手去的，那時的我還背著一個彩色的小書包，書包比我的背還
大。早晨的陽光從屋簷邊灑下，映在阿公笑的咧開嘴的臉龐，皺紋像是一條條溫柔的河流，巧巧流
進我的童年。
從幼兒園開始，每天放學時間，四點一到，我總是整個幼兒園第一個回家的，因為阿公永遠會在大
門口等著我，手裡拿著我喜歡的小點心，有時是雞蛋糕、有時是小餅乾和養樂多，無論颳風下雨，
或是大太陽，下暴雨，阿公總是準時在門口等著我，然後用那輕輕卻穩重的手牽著我從學校一路蹦
蹦跳跳走回家。
每天回家的路上，我總愛跟阿公說學校裡發生的各種大大小小的事，老師今天講了什麼故事、同學
今天又搶了誰的玩具、午睡時我做了什麼夢，午餐和點心又吃了什麼，阿公總是笑著聽，時不時發
出「哎唷、是喔！」的回應。那笑聲是我童年裡最熟悉的旋律。
還沒踏進阿嬤家就會聞到撲鼻而來的飯菜味，因為阿嬤怕我回家餓，又堅持一定要讓我吃到熱熱的
飯菜，所以阿公阿嬤都會抓準時間，阿公接我放學時，阿嬤就開始慢慢備料，而我的工作就是坐在
沙發上幫阿嬤轉台，看到什麼電視上新奇有趣的事，再對著廚房大喊給阿嬤。就算已經是十幾年前
的事了，但依然記憶猶新，我仍清楚記得三點時要看女人我最大、四點我可以看一小時卡通，五點
看主菜節目，六點是健康養生，七點輪到阿公要看新聞。
到了傍晚，我會幫阿嬤煮菜。當然，「幫忙」大多只是打下手。阿嬤切菜，我就在旁邊遞碗、拿筷
子，偶爾也幫忙打蛋。那時的我最喜歡阿嬤的蒸蛋——滑嫩的表面像金色的布丁，入口即化，香氣
淡淡地在嘴裡散開。阿嬤總說：「蒸蛋要火候剛剛好，太久就老了，太快又不熟。」她一邊說，一
邊用手指輕輕敲著鍋蓋，像在聽一首專屬於家的旋律。我才知道，原來看似簡單的一道蛋料理，裡
面不僅藏著學問，更是注滿阿嬤的愛，就是蒸蛋一放入嘴巴裡，柔軟又溫順。
有一次我感冒發燒，整天都沒什麼胃口。阿嬤端來一碗冒著熱氣的蒸蛋，但不一樣的是，裡面多加
了一點糖，是阿嬤特製的甜蒸蛋，她坐在我旁邊，輕聲說：「這樣甜甜的，妳比較吃得下。」我一
口一口地吃著，那股甜味混著雞蛋香，像是從心裡散開來的溫暖。我那時還小，不懂什麼叫
「愛」，只知道阿嬤做的蒸蛋，是世界上最能讓人舒服的味道。
妹妹出生後，家裡變得更熱鬧了。阿嬤同時要照顧我們兩個，常常忙得汗都流到背後，但她從沒抱
怨過。放學回家，她一樣笑著迎接我，一樣會問：「今天老師有沒有誇妳乖？」有時妹妹也生病沒
胃口，阿嬤又會特地蒸那碗甜蒸蛋，分給我們一人一半。她說：「吃了甜甜的東西，病就會跑掉
囉。」
時間就這樣在蒸蛋的香氣裡一天天過去。
一直到現在，偶爾週末回阿嬤家，我還是會請阿嬤幫我做蒸蛋。她的手有點抖，但那份味道，始終
沒變，滑嫩的蛋香、淡淡的甜味、溫柔的蒸氣，彷彿帶我回到那個天真無憂的下午。
現在我已經長大了，阿公的腳走得更慢了，阿嬤也不太能常進廚房。但每當我想起童年的味道，腦
海中總會浮現那碗蒸蛋，那是家的味道，是愛的味道，是我一生都忘不了的溫柔。
有時夜深人靜，我會想，如果有一天再也吃不到阿嬤的蒸蛋，我會怎麼辦？或許我會學著照她的方
法去做，用她教我的溫柔去蒸，用她留下的愛去調味。那時，我就能在那一口滑嫩的蒸蛋裡，再次
聞見阿嬤的笑，聽見她輕輕的叮嚀：「慢慢吃，別燙著喔。」