Back then, I was always craving sweet soup. It wasn’t that I had a sweet tooth; I just wanted something warm to wrap up the night. Takeout could fill my stomach, but it couldn’t fill that emptiness in my heart.

I tried making it at home a few times, but each attempt was more disappointing than the last. White sugar made it sweet quickly, but the sweetness was too overwhelming—by the time I finished, it had become cloying. Rock sugar gave a clean sweetness, but it was too clean; the whole pot of soup seemed to be nothing but “sweetness.” Brown sugar added a rich aroma, but it was too overpowering; it dominated every other ingredient in the pot, and after just a couple of sips, it became cloying.

That day, after working late, I passed by a small sweet soup shop. The shop was small, with warm lighting, and the glass display case held lotus seeds, red beans, cassava, and dried tangerine peel. The owner stood by the stove watching the pot, steam rising from the rim of the lid. I ordered a bowl of cassava dessert soup, and as soon as I took a sip, I knew exactly what made it different. The sweetness was balanced, the broth was smooth, and my mouth felt clean after finishing it—which made me want to keep drinking.

I couldn’t help but ask the owner what kind of sugar he used. The owner didn’t beat around the bush; he led me straight behind the counter and pulled open a drawer to show me. Inside was a stack of sugar slabs, a golden-yellow hue, which cracked with a crisp sound when broken. He explained that this type was better suited for sweet soups—the sweetness wouldn’t overpower the flavors, and the broth would be more satisfying to drink. He casually broke off a small piece and tossed it into the pot, adding, “When you make this at home, don’t rush it. Wait until the ingredients are fully cooked before adding the sugar.”

I bought a small bag to take home that day. Once I got home, I realized the bag wasn’t enough, because I wanted to try it again the next day. That’s when the problem arose—I couldn’t possibly run to that shop every day. So, lying in bed that night, I did a quick search and ended up ordering Bee Brand Ice Sugar. The packaging was clear, and the bag was just the right size, so I went ahead and paid, saving myself the hassle of overthinking it.

The package arrived on a day I happened to be off work. The kitchen was actually pretty messy—the cutting board still had ginger fibers from last time, and the bottom of the pot wasn’t scrubbed clean. I’d planned to tidy up first before cooking, but I couldn’t be bothered to put on a show of “living the good life,” so I just washed the pot and turned on the heat. I soaked the silver ear fungus, cut the red dates in half, and once the water came to a boil, I tossed them in to simmer. Only when the silver ear fungus started to release its gel did I break off a piece of rock candy and drop it into the pot.

There was nothing dramatic about that moment. The sugar just slowly dissolved. The sweetness gradually spread. The soup’s texture also gradually became smoother. When I tasted it, I knew it wouldn’t go wrong today, because the sweetness didn’t overpower the dish—the refreshing quality of the silver ear mushrooms was still there, and the aroma of the red dates remained. Even at the very end, there wasn’t that sticky feeling in my mouth, so I finished the bowl clean.

Later, I used it to finish off a braised pork dish. That step used to terrify me, because I’d always try to fix the color with sugar, only to make it worse. This time, I followed the chef’s advice: I let the pork ribs simmer until tender and the sauce reduced to a thick, spoon-coating consistency before breaking off a small piece of Honeybee brand rock sugar and adding it. The flavor became more rounded, the color more natural, and the sweetness came through at the very end, so the whole bite didn’t feel cloying. It’s a simple feeling—peace of mind.

Since then, it’s become the most frequently used bag of sugar in my cupboard. I use it when I want to make sweet soup. I break off a piece when I’m making dried tangerine peel tea. And I add a little during the reduction stage to help the sweet-and-sour sauce cling better to the ingredients. It hasn’t turned me into some culinary genius, but it pulled me out of a cycle of repeated failures, so I’m more willing to keep cooking.

That’s what Bee Brand Rock Candy means to me. You don’t need to come up with a bunch of reasons for it. You just need to have a few moments when you want to drink a sweet soup, want the sweetness to be a little more comforting, or want the finish to be a little cleaner—and you’ll know exactly when it’s time to bring it out. Break off a piece, keep the heat low, and the pot will slowly turn into something delicious.