What should I write today?

I ask myself this every day, because every day in Chengde brings something new. So today, why not turn to the thing I do best: eating!

Mainly because I went downtown today, and all that wandering-and-snacking resulted in a rather underwhelming performance at dinner… Still, in the few days since I returned to Chengde, my stomach has undoubtedly not had a moment’s rest.

Grandma’s cooking has been number one in my heart since childhood, and nothing has ever shaken its position. Come to think of it, my favorites are always the same few things: baozi, dumplings, stuffed pies (wait, so 馅 isn’t pronounced xiè?), and fried noodles. Whenever Grandma asks, my answer is almost always one of the four. Since so much of my childhood was spent by her side, perhaps what keeps drawing me back is not only the food, but the meaning of “home” wrapped up in it.

Chengde may be a small place, but my family is here. Dad knows I don’t eat hawthorn, so he went out of his way to take us for tanghulu made with frozen Chinese yam (at this point is it even tanghulu?!). When we had walked ourselves cold to the core, Mom took us for lamb soup, its warmth sinking from the tip of my tongue all the way to my toes. And over dessert, my little brother called, “Hey, let’s trade!” so that I could try his sago pudding (except he took my double-skin milk in return, hey). Amid the ice and snow, warmth comes from more than thick clothing.

Fed and content. End of day.