I have always loved food; I mean what kind of monster would I be if I didn’t? But my initial understanding of its premise was limited at best and stunted at worst… Let me start at the beginning.
One frosty move changed everything, literally toppling the well-constructed tower that was my world. My family moved from our comfortable, urban lifestyle in China to brace the Canadian cold. Everything dropped fast, not just the temperature; I felt out of place all over, like an arid desert suddenly drenched in snowfall. Cooped up in my aunt’s house, I missed greasy food stands that made golden spring rolls, incandescent in the sunlight, and steaming hot chicken soup, freshly brewed just in time for breakfast by my grandfather. Instead, I had to settle for week-old croissants that lingered like dust wrapping around my dry throat, and cold fruit slices that made me shudder.
In those days, my mother religiously seeked the Chinese supermarkets where I would bask in the bakery aisle, seeping in the nostalgic scent of a home long gone. I aimlessly watched the oven spin trays of egg tarts whose shells gradually puffed as the ringtone sounded and its perfume wafted. I would stir-fry eggs and tomatoes on weekends so that we wouldn’t have to drive up to the McDonalds and stare at the cinnamon-apple pies in confusion.
Eventually, I accepted that the Domino pizzas didn’t have the same cheese-filled crusts that the Pizza Huts in China offered and that the McDonalds in Canada didn’t have deep-fried taro pies that would crackle open and reveal their violet undertones. I learned instead that poutine was comforting, as the curds squeaked at first bite and the gravy tricked down my fingers. So I learned to relish in a different kind of cheese-pull and accept the cinnamon aroma that would linger in the fall air and make November seem contemplative.
The first time I thought about the plenty of other food offerings stemming from a myriad of ethnicities was by watching Youtube videos. Clips that piqued my interest and taught me that real ingredients needed craftsmanship and nurturing. Lush and vivid arrangements displaying that we feast with our eyes. Carefully plated techniques that required the subtle balancing of flavors to seed an aftertaste that blooms delicately and fades on your palette like petals.
I soon started binge-watching cooking shows where I realized that culture was rooted in these fine dishes, that even giving contestants the same ingredient can cultivate different creations stemming from various heritages. Through the preciseness of their approach, I could glimpse the piercing passion of each individual for their art.
Serendipitously, a tiny app was installed on my mother’s phone, around the time of my epiphany, which forever altered the manner and periphery of our dining. You may have heard of it: It was called UberEats.
From that day on, the steady streams of take out chow-mein waned; Tin-foil parcels dropped on the embroidered mat containing naans brushed in garlic oil were in. The transition took time to get accustomed to, but luckily we didn’t get lost in translation. Switching from soup dumplings to ricotta filled ravioli was jarring at first, but I found that similar elements could be siphoned and appreciated from each cuisine.
It became a habit; Every Saturday, we ceremoniously took out the ceramic plates dripped with cerulean peonies, ordered a foreign staple whose name we couldn’t pronounce, split the meal 3 ways, and savored every bite.
Every vacation or road trip suddenly emerged into a journey of food and discovery. I take every chance I have to learn and to immerse myself, even if it’s a brief 2 hour stop in the Tokyo Airport terminal. I will still grab a bowl of ramen, buy a stack of nama chocolates and bow to the cashier who tells me to enjoy as she entrusts me with this tendril of happiness.
As my family huddled together at an Arab restaurant to celebrate my aunt’s birthday, our radiant faces were mere shadows under the dimming of the scintillating lights. Laughter ringed across the room as couples reunited to share a meal and prepare for life’s best moments. I smiled through sips of mango bubble tea as my cousin passed around the board of grilled liver and Fattoush salad for everyone and knew, suddenly, that I belonged amongst this multicultural seam.
Here’s my lesson: Never think that you know everything. You may think that you recognize every type of ice cream in existence – soft-serve, gelato, sorbet, frozen yogurt – and then Turkish ice-cream comes along and it doesn’t melt instantly. The texture is sticky as if milk immersed itself in wrapped toffee candy, clinging to your molars like the honeyed words of advice that someone gave you on the first day of kindergarten (Never judge a book by its cover).
But don’t worry- time hasn’t completely slipped through the cracks yet and there’s still time to embrace tomorrow. A new day will come where you will summon your courage and burst into a cafe if only to order un pain au chocolat in French. A new day to turn on CBC News instead of Virgin Radio and listen to the food guide tour you through an Afghan supermarket. A new day to tap someone on the shoulder while waiting in line for the mediocre cafeteria food to talk about how mediocre it is.
Food at its core is simply an umbrella term for my exploration of the world; it is colorful and utterly limitless.
- Photo Credit to The Beehive Caters
Sophia's Lens 