The first time I searched for pandan leaves overseas, I was convinced I would find them eventually.
I walked through aisles of international supermarkets, checked every refrigerated section, and even asked a staff member who looked at me like I had just requested a very specific type of magic leaf.
“No pandan,” they said.
I nodded like it was fine.
It was not fine.
It sounds dramatic now, but when you are far from home, ingredients become more than ingredients. A bunch of pandan leaves is not just a bunch of pandan leaves. It is the smell of kaya toast in the morning, the green tint of a childhood dessert, the familiar sweetness drifting from someone’s kitchen.
That was when I started learning the strange reality of cooking Singaporean food abroad: sometimes you have to make peace with almost.
In Singapore, we are spoiled in ways we don’t always realize.
Need belacan? It’s nearby. Looking for dried shrimp? Easy. Want pandan leaves for a weekend baking project? A short trip to the market solves everything.
But overseas, recreating those same dishes becomes a small adventure.
I have spent too much time scrolling through online grocery stores, comparing brands of curry powder, wondering if one packet of laksa paste could somehow survive the journey from a different country. I have ordered ingredients online and waited days just to recreate a dish that took my family less than an hour to prepare back home.
Sometimes the package arrives, and it feels like a tiny celebration.
Sometimes it arrives, and I realize the ingredient is not quite the same.
Kaya was one of the hardest things to accept.
The kaya I knew growing up was smooth, fragrant, and deeply connected to weekend breakfasts. The combination of coconut, eggs, sugar, and pandan created something simple but unforgettable.
Making it abroad meant experimenting.
No fresh pandan leaves? Try pandan extract.
Missing the exact coconut milk brand? Find another one.
The first few attempts were not perfect. Some were too sweet. Some were too thick. Some tasted like they were trying very hard to become kaya but had not quite arrived yet.
But then one morning, I spread it on toast, took a bite, and stopped analyzing.
It was not exactly the kaya from home.
But it was close enough to bring back a feeling.
And sometimes, that is what we are really searching for.
The same thing happened with belacan and dried shrimp.
These ingredients carry so much flavor, but they also carry memories. The smell can be powerful — especially in a small apartment where your neighbors may not understand why your kitchen suddenly smells so intense.
I learned to adjust.
A little less belacan. A different brand of dried shrimp. More garlic, more chili, more patience.
Cooking Singaporean food abroad slowly teaches you that authenticity is not always about having every single ingredient perfectly lined up. Sometimes it is about understanding what makes a dish feel like itself.
The warmth. The balance. The memory behind it.
There is a quiet joy in these little victories.
Finding pandan leaves in a tiny Asian grocery store after months of searching.
Discovering a substitute that actually works.
Making sambal that reminds you of home, even if the chili is slightly different.
Cooking a familiar dish in a completely unfamiliar kitchen.
These moments may seem small, but for expats, they matter.
Because every time we recreate a taste from home, we are not just making dinner. We are rebuilding a connection.
The truth is, Singaporean food abroad will rarely be exactly the same. The ingredients might change. The kitchen might be smaller. The recipe might need adjusting.
But maybe that is part of the journey.
Home is not always found in perfect recreations. Sometimes it is found in the effort — in the searching, the adapting, and the moment when a familiar flavor finally appears on your plate.
Even thousands of miles away, that little taste can still bring you back.
