Illness can be the most lonely thing in the world. After all, no one else will ever feel precisely what you’re feeling: your aches, your pains, your throbbing brain. You are utterly alone. It’s you against everyone else. But then there are the moments – the tastes – which show us that sometimes, the opposite is true.

Whenever I was ill as a child, my mother would appear in my room bearing a full, steaming bowl of plain Hong Kong-style congee. It’s a simple meal – perhaps the most simple in the world. A handful of jasmine rice, boiled in water until it breaks down. Maybe the smallest touch of salt. No tricks, no cooking hacks. Just heat and a little bit of time.

But this wasn’t just any bowl of congee. This was my mother’s 愛心白粥 – oi sum bak juk, “loving heart congee”. Congee made with a handful of rice grains. Water. The smallest touch of salt. And made with care, with ministration. No tricks, no hacks. Just heat, a little bit of time, and every possible ounce of love.

It always worked. Loving heart congee is warming, soothing, healing. The balm for a fever. The salve for a troubled brow. Plain enough to soothe upset stomachs; nutritious enough to breathe some life into a lonely soul.

When I’m sick these days, it’s all that I crave. The last time my sister wasn’t well, her new husband messaged me to request the recipe. That, to me, is love.

Your own version of loving heart congee may vary, as it does across cultures. For my wife, it’s Heinz Cream of Tomato soup (she will accept no substitute brands). Yours might be a simple pasta dish. Chicken noodle soup. Pita bread, hot off a griddle and steaming with a life-giving power it doesn’t know it holds.

It doesn’t really matter what your ultimate comfort food is. What matters is that it’s simple, it’s warm, and that it’s made – always – with love.