Describe a meal you will remember

The meal I'll always remember is a fairly ordinary bowl of canh chua — sour fish soup — that my grandmother cooked for me the last time I visited her, about two years before she passed away. There was nothing special about the occasion; I'd just dropped by after work because I happened to be in the area, and she insisted on cooking, the way she always did whenever anyone visited, regardless of the time or how little notice she'd had. We ate it at her kitchen table, just the two of us, with the fan going because the power to the air conditioner kept tripping that summer. I remember it mostly because of how unremarkable it felt at the time — we talked about nothing important, my job, the neighbours, a leak in her roof she kept meaning to fix — and it was only afterwards, once she was gone, that the meal took on a different weight in my memory. I've tried recreating it a few times since, and it's never quite right; there's some proportion of tamarind or fish sauce I can't get exactly the way she made it, or maybe it's just that the memory has been sweetened by time. Either way, it's the meal that comes to mind whenever anyone asks this question, not because of what was on the plate, but because I didn't know at the time it would be the last one.