The Broth Never Stays Red - By Melissa Lee Ee Jiet

Written By: Melissa Lee Ee Jiet

Category: Poetry

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In her evocative poem "The Broth Never Stays Red," Melissa Lee Ee Jiet delves into themes of tradition, identity, and familial bonds. Participating in the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, Melissa offers a profound reflection on her cultural heritage through the artful preparation of Foochow Mee Sua. Her poetry, featured in the esteemed Poetry category, intricately explores the intersection of memory, tradition, and personal journey, inviting readers into a world where heritage is both a blessing and a challenge.

About the Work

"The Broth Never Stays Red" is a masterful exploration of cultural and personal identity. Melissa Lee Ee Jiet employs vivid imagery and a deeply introspective narrative style to convey the complexities of tradition and family expectations. The poem juxtaposes the meticulous process of making Foochow Mee Sua with the emotional weight of familial obligations, crafting a narrative that speaks to resilience and the desire for self-definition. Her work resonates with a universal longing for acceptance and understanding, wrapped in the comforting yet demanding embrace of tradition.

The Broth Never Stays Red

Original Submission by Melissa Lee Ee Jiet

The Broth Never Stays Red

Melissa Lee

To make Foochow Mee Sua the right way,

you begin days in advance.

We start by boiling chicken bones

until the flesh falls away,

until the broth turns gold with patience.

Mushrooms are soaked until they swell like lungs; Full, silent, breathing in.

The noodles are what comes next.

Thin, rice-white threads dried under the sun on bamboo racks, woven by hand, looped like offerings.

They are delicate, yes, but they do not break.

They bend, they hold.

The red wine comes last.

Uang Chew brewed by women before their time of the month, fermented in dark corners for weeks,

stirred in silence by women who never asked to be praised. Blood-coloured, but not blood.

Sharp on the tongue,

sweet only when you hold it long enough.

My grandmothers, both maternal and paternal, made it like scriptures.

Every movement, muscle memory.

My Ah Ma in particular always brewed her own wine. Recycled bottles of beer, now poured with red.

The same savoury, alcoholic punch

that blessed every member in the household.

From her daughters, her sons, to her in-laws-my family, she offered her own kind of love through dashes of wine, each bottle a blessing disguised as flavour,

with longevity and quiet wishes for prosperity.

These women never needed a recipe.

They never explained what it meant,

but I knew.

When she passed,

my family began to purchase red wine from the shelves.

“Aiya, it’s all the same,”

my grandmother muttered once,

hands tired, mouth already busy

with complaints about the hassle of wine-making.

No air. No dampness.

No blood.

The women must not be bleeding.

Hence, there were never jars

fermenting quietly in our kitchens anymore.

Those days were gone, and nobody said it out loud.

My family serve Uang Chew Mee Sua as celebration, Chinese New Year, birthdays and weddings too, my grandmother said in the midst of New Year cooking, that a bundle of Mee Sua had turned to water, as if it had given up before it even had the chance to soften.

I then remembered how Mee Sua drinks broth the way my family drinks pain and tears.

It soaks everything up.

Every word I gave them, every piece of myself I laid bare- they took it in, but never kept the flavour.

It lingered, but never stayed.

They never tasted me.

They returned it cold, heavy, and soggy;

too much to chew, too dense to swallow.

Just like the way my family called me bitter, selfish, and even ungrateful

that I had shamed our entire bloodline

down to the eighteenth layer of Hell.

I am Foochow by blood, but blood is not a promise. Not when it’s always drawn, never offered.

There’s a difference between bloodline and bloodletting.

To keep eating Mee Sua at this table

is to keep bleeding quietly;

to keep boiling myself down

into something easier to serve.

And yet, when I refuse the bowl,

they say I am refusing them.

Refusing tradition,

refusing love,

refusing the bloodline I am was born into,

and expected to be loyal without questions or demands.

But they have already forgotten

that our ancestors taught me more than a recipe.

Our women taught me patience, resilience, and strength;

that blood can be brewed with our own hands,

even when we walk away from the same blood.

My Ah Mah, her Ah Mah,

all the women who brewed the bloodline that made me

with bowls of red wine broth i never got to taste,

taught me how to simmer.

Not how to starve

not how to silence myself,

not how to reduce into a faint hint of alcohol that was sucked up by rice noodles, nor how to shrink.

I once tasted a bowl of Mee Sua

made by someone else.

A stranger, a friend,

someone who asked if I wanted to eat,

not if I knew my place.

That bowl held me gently,

that broth didn’t ask me to prove anything.

One day,

I will make my own bowl of noodles,

not to recreate,

but to honour and remember.

I’ll dry my own Mee Suas on a borrowed rack,

looped in small, clumsy bundles-

not perfect, but mine.

Threaded not with duty, but care;

not with silence, but memory.

I’ll ferment my own Uang Chew,

watch it bloom in jars I’ve chosen myself, where no one tells me who can stir,

and when to stir.

Maybe I won’t get the taste right,

maybe the broth won’t blush the way Ah Mah’s did, but this time, it won’t be for everyone.

It will be for the ones who sit at my table gently, the ones who ask if I’m full,

the ones who stay when the bowl is still warm, but not yet served.

Because blood may bind,

but love is what seasons,

and I would rather bruise my hands

learning how to feed myself from scratch then keep swallowing what once fed everyone but me.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar is a prestigious platform celebrating literary talent from around the world. The competition invites writers to explore diverse themes and artistic expressions through poetry, short stories, and creative writing. It is a celebration of creativity and storytelling, fostering a global community of writers and poets who share their unique voices and narratives.

We extend our sincere gratitude to Melissa Lee Ee Jiet for sharing her poignant work, "The Broth Never Stays Red," with us. Her participation in the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 enriches the tapestry of stories and voices that make this event truly special. We look forward to seeing how her poetic journey unfolds and wish her continued success in her creative endeavors.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.