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A Single Serving of Soy Milk (RECIPE)

Last week, my relationship ended. The dissolution had been months in the making. We were desperate miners trying to pass off pyrite as gold. For a while we believed we could. But in the end we couldn’t.

Last week was also when New York City was ravaged by below-freezing temperatures. Being indoors felt sad, so I filled my schedule with outdoor activity in hopes of sparing no time for nostalgia. Yet the cold city thrived with warm memories. Mine. His. There was his old apartment in the East Village where he lived after college. His favorite pizza joint. The cafe in Clinton Hill where he’d begrudgingly get his egg sandwiches. “Horrible service. But convenient,” he’d always say. My tear ducts throbbed whenever I’d see a couple canoodling in public. He and I were such unapologetic offenders of public canoodling.

Shopping at Whole Foods was the worst. The aisles were stocked with stories.

Daikon: The first time I cooked dinner for him.
Ribeye: The first time he cooked for me.
Kale: Every single time we ate dinner with his kids. God, I miss his kids.
Nuts: We had only been dating for a few weeks when he left for a month-long photo shoot in Texas. I woke up in his bed the day he left, hung-over and hungry. I stumbled into his kitchen in search of provisions and found an empty bowl and a jar of nuts on the counter. Next to the still life display was a Post-it note that read, “And the yogurt in the frig for breakfast. XX” He had written “frig” but I didn’t care that the “d” and “e” were missing or that he was missing, because everything in my life had fallen into place at that moment. And at that moment, I was at his place, blissfully eating his yogurt.

Recipes, Thoughts, CookingDiane ChangFebruary 15, 2016soy milk, chinese food, drinks, soybeans, cooking, Po-Po, grandma, blender, love, alone Comments

In Loving Memory of Po-Po's Hands

Thoughts, Tradition, CookingDiane ChangJuly 22, 2015tradition, memories, Po-Po, hands, chinese, love, grandmaComment

Choices (Thoughts)

My grandparents have been married for over 70 years. Technically, my grandpa (or Gong-Gong) passed away about 24 years ago, but they’re still married. I’ve encouraged her to hit up the geriatric dating scene. But, “Gong-Gong and I will reunite in the after life,” Po-Po insists. Theirs was true love. Not the foggy-brained, dewy eyed, passionate kind of love that dissolves into deceitful, late night Tinder rabbit holes, but a partnership that’s weathered life’s unexpected tragedies. Shortly after Gong-Gong’s death, I awoke to Po-Po weeping in the corner of her bedroom. I felt it necessary to console her as best as a six year old possibly could. By asking a ton of questions. “What’s wrong, Po-Po?” I asked.

“Nothing. I’m just sad. But it’ll be ok,” Po-Po responded, trying to stifle her tears. The sun was rising and a soft glow crept through the window blinds. Her eyes looked so heartbreakingly sad.

But I obnoxiously pressed on. “What are you thinking about?”

“Oh, just about your Gong-Gong. I’m thinking about how we had no choice but to leave our families in China during the war. Just the two of us in Taiwan. He was the only family I had.”

Thoughts, TraditionDiane ChangJanuary 22, 2015Po-Po, Gong-Gong, Taiwan, Chinese, choices, love, relationships, death Comment

Salty Sweet (Thoughts)

“I think our faux-breakups makes us closer,” I said to my boyfriend this morning. We had just polished off breakfast – he had fried eggs and leftover pad thai; I had bacon and yogurt – and we were watching this TED Talk about “the secret to desire in a long term relationship.” It’s not unusual that a perfectly monotonous occasion like breakfast would become an event tinged with emotion and deep discussion. That's how we do. Luckily, my epiphany made him chuckle. "You're drama," he responded.

Our relationship has had some growing pains lately. There's been some yelling and crying, followed by making up and making out. I think we both relish in a little bit of drama. We occasionally need the long soliloquies in the middle of an empty street, the reflection of moonlight bouncing off of our tears, and the painful exchange of personal hygiene products, keys, or whatever else is symbolic of goodbye. And when the reality of finality hits, we embrace and end up filling the bedroom with loud, desperate but loving grunts. (TMI?)