When I’m out for breakfast or brunch, pancakes have become too much of a commitment for me. They go from pillows of doughy heaven to cloying, oppressively-dense gut bombs halfway through the meal. Eating pancakes feels like an undeserved indulgence -- like  finishing off a pint of ice cream for breakfast. (I’m sooooo guilty of that.) Or having pizza for two meals in a row. (Also, soooooo guilty of that.)

Maybe it’s an age thing. As I’ve gotten older, my decision-making process has seesawed from the dopamine-releasing quick fixes to “how am I going to feel in an hour?” My bounce-back success rate is lower these days. Boozy nights now leave me feeling like a dried mango the next morning. Like all remnants of liquid and youth sucked from my pores.

Read More

That rainy Tuesday afternoon in Newark, I knew.

The outside world, cold and bleak, seemed like paradise. It seemed I was held hostage inside the hip headquarters of every millenial’s dream company, pumping out ad campaigns. Just three desks and a glass window away was a grayer place. But out there––there were no walls. No HR paperwork or stray pen caps. No computer that I’d have to hunch over every day, plugging in words that were supposed to be meaningful. My life on the other hand, felt meaningless.

But I should have been more grateful, right?

Looking back, those office walls shielded me from what was to come. The grass is always greener or in this case, consistent paychecks, subsidized healthcare and paid vacations smell sweeter when I’m scrambling for rent. Or dreaming of the next vacation I can’t afford. And it’s especially depressing when I aimlessly scroll through my inbox for catering opportunities. Clicking on “Subject line: January 2018 Seasonal Hours” led me only to a reminder that I needed to unsubscribe from junk mail. No new work; not yet at least.

Read More

We're halfway through summer and the farmer's markets are flush with vibrant fruits and veggies. Sometimes, it's even hard for me peruse the stalls without my sunglasses on, blinded by the dizzying bright colors of beets, amaranth, peaches, strawberries, squash, and more. I’m the jerk with the obnoxiously large tote bag, sunnies snug on my face, music blasting through my headphones as I get handsy with the peppers. Completely unaware of other humans. In my zone, channeling the vibe of every Chinese grandmother who has “tapped” her way to the perfect watermelon. Except I’m fondling the peppers. Yes, I’m that jerk. 

Summer’s market-fresh produce reminds me of the colorful bounty Po-Po’s garden would yield, which included sought-after Asian greens I can only pronounce in Mandarin to seasonal basics like cucumbers, tomatoes, and eggplant. I loved seeing the ripe vegetables picked and pulled, with leaves still attached and soil bits speckled about. Colors and scents would fill up her kitchen. There would be stems in her hair and dirt under her nails. These were effortless moments that today, would require a a food stylist and Instagram filter to recreate. Po-Po’s gardening was #nofilter necessary. 

Read More

I took a month off. Not so much to refocus or even relax. I took a time off to binge on life. After all, I'm blessed with so much in my life: a beautiful family, invaluable friendships, episodic love affairs (I appreciate even the bad ones), trials that morph into important lessons, and of course, delicious food wherever I turn. So I binged. I bulldozed, Hoovered, engulfed anything and everything that would enrich my life. And here I am now, forever changed, in love with life, and somehow with my own gluten-free/dairy-free bread business? You're probably like "WTF?" because I am kind of like "WTF?" too. But mostly I'm the wide-grin-happy-face emoji. 

I'll explain myself in more detail later. But for now, check out my Instagram for the eye candy. Or if you'd like to special order my breads, please fill out the form here. And stay tuned as I start the inevitable unveiling of what's been born from this month of life-binging. 

Read More

I.
The mourning process never really ends. It just morphs from hyperrealistic to manageable. Grief of the anatomical loss becomes a longing for the sounds, touch, smells and other sensory souvenirs left behind by the deceased. Sad broad strokes of remembering and regretting give way to a desperate need for the details. What did she tell me about her village in China again? What kind of spices did she use for her smoked chicken? How long were our hugs? And her voice. God, I miss Po-Po’s voice the most. Her thick Sichuanese intonation layered with heart-warming butteriness. For me, the eyes were not the windows to her soul–her unique, vibrant, and generous voice was.   

“Grandma called. We’re having dinner on Saturday,” my mom would say a week before one of Po-Po’s dinners. Even towards the end of her life, Po-Po was an organized  Martha Stewarty super-host. By the time she’d call, her menu was meticulously planned. Food would be shopped for 3 days in advance and everything prepped the night before the party. Although I was rarely on the receiving end of her calls, I can imagine exactly what she sounded like. Hurried and excited; as if she couldn’t wait to get off the phone and start chopping. On the day of the party, she’d greet us all with sparse but bright hellos. Dulcet, almost, if not for her volume which was always set on “Loud.” 

Read More

When life gives you lemons, eat them–pith, seeds and all. That is the traditional Chinese way. But these days, I much prefer this: when life presents you a bitter melon, make a tasty stir-fry out of it and indulge. 

“Eating bitter” or 吃苦 is a frequently-used Chinese idiom and a widely-accepted Confucian approach to enduring whatever crappy circumstances life hands you. While researching this, I stumbled upon a message board thread on the topic with a commenter’s funny theory: 

“‘People from Sichuan Province are thought to be the ablest to ‘eat bitter.’ Few days ago in a foreign newsletter says that it was the spirit of “eat bitterness” help Sichuan People go through the earthquakes.”

If what the commenter says is true, then given my Sichuanese heritage, I’m genetically predisposed to handle a tremendous amount of suffering. Whoopee.

This might explain the pre-college torment I unhappily weathered. which included SAT class-filled weekends, summers of endless academia, and the occasional community service work for college credit. (Apparently, giving tours of an old train station while listening to the Strokes on my cd player was considered community service.) After all, my parents wanted me to live the American dream. With a 4.0 GPA and a killer SAT score, I'd be financially secure for life. For this, I chose to eat bitter. I knew of no other way.

Read More

Another Thanksgiving has come and gone. Except this year, I tagged along with my boyfriend and spent it at an amazing loft in the West Village with a rooftop that surpassed all other New York City rooftops. Standing on that rooftop with an unobstructed view of the Hudson, I could almost stroke the stylistically unimpressive buildings across the water in Jersey. What a rooftop.

When dinner was served, every American holiday stand-by imaginable was served, neatly arranged on ethnic hand-painted ceramic plates. Mac and Cheese, stuffing, and the like softened the crude paint strokes and unevenness of the dishes. Very boho-luxe. Twenty or so plates of food dotted a table long enough to feel medieval. The room-filling laughter and clinking of glasses reminded me of every holiday film I’d ever seen growing up. Festive! American! At the end of dinner, we took turns sharing words of gratitude–a lovely and very new ritual to me. At times I couldn't help but wonder, guiltily, whether it was rude of me to stomp around the antique rug-lined floors with my microbe-laden shoes. It all felt so foreign to me. And the foreignness of it all made me miss my family and our untraditional Thanksgivings. 

Read More

There's been a food renaissance in the last decade – a triumphant return to our agrarian, nomadic roots. A rejection of the corporate brainwashing we endured throughout the 80s, sandwiched between two sugary McDonald’s buns, washed down with an extra large soda. I welcome all of it–the discussions, the debates, the questions, the tomes on fermentation, and even the new-age blissed out farm-to-table evangelists. Kefir, hemp milk, rooftop gardens – let’s be friends.

I hate it when curmudgeony haters dismiss this important movement as being a hipster fad. Sure. It can be hard to wade through jars upon jars of lacto-fermented cabbage, homemade hot sauce, and basement-brewed beers, without a little bit of an eye-roll. Or not find the intentional rusticity of some of the packaging design to be overly precious. But if you can get past all of that, you’ll find that the faddishly sustainable approach is good for your health (and soul).

Lucky for me, Po-Po was way always ahead of the game. Back in China, pre-Cultural Revolution, her father owned rice paddies and had a thriving rice wine business. Women were expected to stay at home and pick up useless skills like embroidery. Po-Po followed her grandmother around instead, learning how to ferment and pickle things. Needless to say I never had embroidered anything but I ate a ton of homemade, homegrown fermented and pickled veggies.

Read More

Recently I boldly and proudly went where I’d never gone before. I went on a date. By myself. With myself. It was self-imposed solitude, New York-style. A jaunt to my favorite bar, Henry Public, alone. To the bartender, I proudly declared, “just one, please.” I ordered a salad and a glass of the house red, oh, and a bowl of mayo-smothered fries because when I’m by myself, I can do whatever I want. Stuffed, I strolled over to an ice cream parlor where I continued eating for two, as if there were.

Because I’m an only child, I’m an experienced soloist. (I’m also kind of selfish, but we’ll save that for another day.) After dinner, I decided to watch a movie. Just me and ten other couples, in the dimly lit weekday oasis of the Cobble HIll Cinemas, soaking up culture. I took off my shoes immediately, unbuttoned my jeans (damn those mayo fries) and just let it–all of it–hang out. Best date ever. 

Later, when my boyfriend and I spoke on the phone, I felt guilty. Like I was cheating on him. And I was–with myself. 

While my solo date was fun, aloneness is not inherent to Chinese food culture. Think about it: There’s a reason why round dining tables and Lazy Susans are prevalent at Chinese restaurants. It’s because Chinese food is designed to be eaten communally. Even takeout is better shared. With more mouths, you can split the beef and broccoli, the chow mein, and string beans. You’ll still wake up the next day bloated, just less than you would if you’d finished off a plate of kung pao chicken by yourself. Every meal ends up feeling like a banquet. 

Read More