I got a new frying pan. Well, my mother did, but then, I tend to forget to buy these things because I do so many others, and my first frying pan still works, even if it tends to trigger the smoke detectors if you're not watching close enough. But, yes, I got a new frying pan, and the first thing I fried there are two slices of luncheon meat.

The weird thing is those two slices tend to curl when I flip it. It can't be the meat, because it's the same thing I've been buying before. Is it in how I store it in the fridge? I don't think that's changed much, either. It must be the frying pan. But why does it do that? And while we're at it, why do both of my frying pans put all of my oil on the sides? I'm not shallow frying - I don't want my pans swimming in oil unless I really have to - but it makes me think that my flat isn't really that flat, that it tilts to one side, and that an earthquake will kill me, along with hundreds of thousands more.

But then, it's time to fry the egg. I'm happy about the new frying pan because I can practice my egg cooking again. Before I moved to the flat I did these things pretty well, with this heavy egg pan (you know, smaller radius... right?) that allows me to do fancy omelettes and perfect sunny side up eggs. Now, though, wth that old frying pan, it will stick, and my yolk will break. Maybe it's because it's a regular frying pan. Maybe it's because it's terrible with regulating heat. Maybe it's because I'm using an induction cooker, something I don't really have a choice about because I live in a flat and those are the rules. But then, I learned that you keep the stove at 140 so that your eggs turn out perfect. I asked the omelette chef at the hotel breakfast buffet last week. I trust her.

This new frying pan isn't an egg pan, because it's slightly wider, but that just means you can, if you really want to, fry two things at the same time. I do it somewhat convincingly. At least I can use the lid from one of my wider pans to do the splash-some-water-in-the-pan-and-steam-the-egg thing. I'm not in the mood for sunny side up today. Not that it'd make sense, because I am making cheese ramen next.

Yes, all that frying was just for the topping.

To be fair, this is instant cheese ramen. You don't really have to think too much about it. Just follow the instructions, save for the one about putting the cheese powder last. I won't claim credit for that, but it does make things better, if not easier. The only downside to this is that you'll now have to wash a frying pan and a saucepan - I have a small one that doubles as an instant noodles thing - but then, you've already committed to this whole charade, taking thirty minutes off your precious day just to make breakfast that you'll eat in half the time anyway.

But if you're up to it, you can multitask. You've done your prep anyway. The luncheon meat and the egg are waiting on a plate. If you really wanted to keep it warm, you could put aluminum foil over it, but then you'll put it on top of a bowl of noodles, so I suppose it's fine. (Also, I don't have aluminum foil. Supposedly it keeps cats away from places you don't want them to be, but as we - I - found out at some point, it does not work on everyone.) You already have one bunch of pechay, the ends cut off, waiting on the chopping board; you don't want that in the boiling soup, for fear of losing its crisp texture and slightly zingy flavor.

So you can prepare some milk tea. Thai milk tea, perhaps, but without the orange coloring. I still remember one of my former colleagues enlighten me about what it's really made up of. "It's Ceylon tea and condensed milk," Elaine said while we were eating chili crabs in Clarke Quay. So, two bags of Ceylon tea - store-brand is fine, as in this case - in that little stainless pot that's part of a Hong Kong milk tea set (you know, the ones with the net) that I got as a thank-you for moderating a panel discussion on the Regional Comprehensive Economic Partnership. It used to come in a nicely-illustrated tin; does it still contain tarot cards?

Anyway, I do have condensed milk, but I don't feel like opening it. What I do have open is a can of evaporated milk - full cream, as Pailin said - and I can replicate the effect with some sugar instead. And, as she suggested, adding vanilla extract. That's the thing. I've been looking for that one thing since I had my first taste of Thai milk tea in a food court in Bangkok thirteen years ago, and only now do I know that it's vanilla extract... only we don't have it here, so I got definitely artificial vanilla flavor instead. It works, still, so it's fine.

Four minutes are up, so the noodles go in a big bowl. Pechay next, curled up and placed in one side. The luncheon meat next. The egg next. I would usually have some sliced green onions on top, but I don't have any and, frankly, it's overkill at this point. I let that cool a bit - this is instant ramen, not ramen from a fussy Japanese restaurant - while I assemble my drink. The steeped tea in one glass, with the sugar, the evap and the vanilla, all by eye. Stir, then transfer it to another glass, but with ice. This is why you want to put more sugar than you think you need: the water will dilute things. Take a sip, and be satisfied.

Bring everything to the coffee table, turn off the radio, turn on the news, and watch Alvin and Doris sow chaos in the morning - in a good way - while you slurp the soup. I don't eat it in fifteen minutes; I eat it in thirty. You realize you have to take your time eating, since you took your time cooking.

Self-love is making yourself breakfast. But at some point, you'll realize you can't keep on doing this for yourself. But if no one else loves you, and no one else is willing to love you, what else can you do?