本文來自

文 | Zhaoyi

編輯 | 璇子

I’m a food lover, and, according to my family and friends, a pretty good cook too. Food plays a central role in my life and is deeply tied to my past self. I feel incredibly lucky to have moved beyond the period when I struggled with food and when I couldn’t enjoy eating because I was consumed by the pathological desire to be thin.

Now, I truly appreciate my life and food, for every bite I take, how it feels in my mouth, what I’m thinking in that moment, and what memories or reflections it brings up. I want to write those moments down.

I hope my words can bring a sense of joy—even if just to one reader, or at the very least, to myself. I hope they serve as a reminder to be grateful for what we already have in life.

Sit. Stay. Slay.

Halfway through moving, exhausted, surrounded by pots, dishes, clothes, and scattered, unopened boxes, my husband and I decided to escape the chaos and feed our growling stomachs.

While waiting for mySit. Stay. Slay.to come, I took another close look at the best burger house in town. It’s a classic American restaurant decoration. The walls are covered with photos of the owner posing with celebrities who have visited before, a textbook restaurant industry trick to flaunt the greatness of their food. The checkout counter is stacked with T-shirts and hoodies printed with the restaurant’s logo and mascot. Clearly, the owner is so proud of their burgers that they believe customers will pay to advertise for them.

Inside, staff hustled back and forth, delivering trays of food, checking in with tables in that cheerful-but-slightly-rushed tone (“Everything good here? Good!”), and then wiping down tables for the next guests. I glanced out the yellow-tinted windows and around the neighborhood. Hard to believe I’ve lived in this city for about two years, and this is already my third move.

Growing up, I moved many times. The first was at thirteen, when I left my hometown to attend high school in another city. I remember feeling a mix of fear, longing, and excitement. And that move marked the beginning of a slow, quiet farewell to the only place that had ever felt like home, a home where my grandparents and parents lived. Each life transition since college, grad school, and new jobs has come with another move, another migration, and my belongings have grown from two suitcases to dozens of boxes and all shapes and sizes of luggage.

The more I pack and unpack, the further I am away from home. Now, I’m two continents away. Home has become symbolic—something I’ve almost stopped visiting. I even missed the chance to see my grandfather before he passed last year, and since then, home has felt like a place I no longer know how to return to. I missed him a lot...

“Z, your order is ready!” The guy at the counter calls my name, snapping me out of my thoughts. Food, I think, can always soothe a tired soul.

I unwrapped my burger—a marvel layered with cheddar, double patty, candied bacon, and a daring peanut butter banana spread, all nestled between a hearty pretzel bun. It’s a limited-time menu item I’ve never tried before. The flavor really surprises me. It’s a unique combination of ingredients and a creative twist on a burger. Instead of a soggy brioche, this chewy, resilient pretzel bun holds the juicy patties and melted cheese beautifully. The bacon is fried until all the fat is gone, leaving it crisp to the edge. The peanut butter adds crunch; and the sweet and salty flavors are perfectly balanced, melting on my tongue with the first bite.

I close my eyes. So grateful to the chef who made this. In a time and place where there’s no rou jia mo, a burger like this is enough to comfort a homesick soul!

Sweet and Tangy Pork Ribs

The first proper meal we had after settling down in our new apartment was theSweet and Tangy Pork Ribs. It is one of my favorite dishes and a staple in many Chinese households. It’s simple, comforting, and easy to make, because all you need are pork ribs and a few spices.

Fresh ribs are best, of course, but frozen ones are also fine. After all, not everyone shops at a butcher. The key condiments are sugar, vinegar, and soy sauce; that’s where the sweet and sour flavors come from. We always prepare some spices like star anise, ginger, peppercorn, and cinnamon when cooking meat, partly to mask the bloodiness flavor of the meat, and on the other hand to add some aromatic flavors.

Somehow, the meat here in the USoften tastes more “animal” to me. Rumor said that it’s because slaughterhouses don’t drain the blood from animals since it's considered a more humane way to kill them.Kinda ironic. Every so often I think about the meat I grew up eating and wonder how those animals were killed. Did they still feel everything after their throats were slit? Were they still dimly conscious, lying there, waiting to die? Well, sympathy for them visits me sometimes, but unfortunately, it never stops me from eating.

Different cookbooks give slightly different recipes for the same dish. We’ve tried a few variations, but in the end, the taste doesn’t change all that much. What makes jia chang cai, a homestyle cooking dish, so special is precisely its simplicity. It’s approachable, flexible, and welcoming. The steps are easy enough for any home cook to bring a satisfying meal to the dinner table.

Every version is a little different, shaped by memory, taste, and habit. Some families might like it sweeter and add an extra spoonful of sugar; others might prefer it tangier, so they go heavier on the vinegar. One dish can have countless recipes across families and regions. That’s the beauty of it.

With all the ingredients ready, we started by frying the ribs until browned. Instead of using dark soy sauce to give the dish color, our way is to melt rock sugar first. Once the pot heats up enough, the sugar turns into a glossy, syrupy liquid that clings easily to the surface of the ribs. This helps them brown evenly and take on a deep, appetizing color.

The next step is to add all the condiments: spices, soy sauce, and vinegar. Give everything a quick stir-fry, allowing the heat of the pot to awaken the aromas. The dry spices and sauces start to bloom, their fragrance rising with the steam. Then pour in tap water until it just covers the ribs and bring everything to a boil.

Once it starts bubbling, cover the pot and let it braise for 40 to 50 minutes, until the ribs turn tender and the flavors sink in. Make sure there’s still some liquid left before you start reducing the sauce—because that’s when the real magic happens. The blend of sweet, sour, savory, and umami slowly simmers into the loosened fibers of the meat, winding its way into the core of each rib. As the liquid evaporates, the essence of the sauce clings to the ribs, locking in the richness and creating that perfect color and taste.

When it’s done, serve it with steamed white rice. The thickened sauce pairs beautifully with the grains, soaking in just enough to balance the richness and add a deep, meaty flavor. After scraping the meat off the bone, the tender ribs and soaked rice dance on your palate.

No matter where or when I take a bite, my mind can always drift back to a summer noon from childhood, coming home from school, stomach growling, and catching the first whiff of that caramelized aroma from the kitchen. It opened up my appetite in an instant, and I’d wolf down the bowl without a second thought.

So for me, Jia chang cai isn’t just a way of cooking; it’s a word that evokes closeness, warmth, and comfort. It can remind you of someone, or a moment when you felt deeply loved. Sometimes, just thinking of it is enough to bring you home.

Hot Oil Noodles

Moving into a new place, according to tradition, calls for a housewarming celebration. While shopping for ingredients at the grocery store, I spotted a bundle of curvy, thick-cut noodles labeled “Oriental Fettuccine.” I paused. Isn’t that sliced noodles? I muttered inwardly.

Packed in a ziplock-like bag, the sliced noodles were twisted into small, tidy bunches. Each one seemed just right for a single serving. They were broad and thick in the center, tapering at the edges, with each slice about as wide as a thumb. The curved shape makes them perfect for catching and holding onto sauce. Holding them, my mind already flashed with a couple of recipes and different flavor combinations that I wanted to try with the sliced noodles.

When I got home, I opened the fridge and began unpacking our grocery store treasures. As I reached for the corner of the counter, a few cloves of garlic rolled under my finger, as if to say, “Try me.” I smiled. Of course. There’s a simplest, most classic way to cook sliced noodles. No complicated sauces, no elaborate prep. Just the magic of drizzling the oil over dry seasonings piled on top of freshly boiled noodles, then mixing it all up.You will get a bowl of noodles that smells as good as it tastes, rich, glossy, and irresistible. Paired with a can of ice-cold soda, it’s a moment of pure epiphany on a scorching summer day.

We didn't end up eating the noodles that day, but later that night I randomly came across an article which said many shapes and varieties of Chinesenoodles have near-twins in Italy. And to my surprise, many Italian pastas trace curious links to our Shanxi province, a place often hailed as the cradle of Chinese noodle culture with a history as rich as the flavors in its bowls. From shaved noodles to pulled noodles, from cat’s ear noodles to thick-sliced noodles, there always seems to be an Italian counterpart with a similar form.

Even more suprising is the parallel use of tomato-based sauces in Shanxi noodles and Italian cuisine. Some food historians suggest that modern tomato preservation and cooking techniques in the region were influenced by contact with Western missionaries and traders during the 20th century. Whatever the exact route, it’s a reminder that food traditions, like people, can travel, adapting, blending, and thriving far from their origins.

I’m reminded of a line from Wang Zengqi’s Eat Well, Live Well: in life, the most important thing is to eat well and live well—to cultivate a broad palate, be open to diverse flavors, and taste as much of the world as you can. That should be our attitude toward food, but also toward life itself.

Looking back over the past thirty years of travel and work, I’ve tasted countless dishes—delicious, inventive, strange, comforting. Each was deeply connected to its local landscape, climate, and history, which shaped the ingredients, cooking techniques, and flavors. Over time, tasting widely has made my palate more inclusive, and my spirit more eager to embrace the unfamiliar.

Whenever we discover a new restaurant or stumble upon an unfamiliar snack, there’s a thrill in trying something we’ve never had before—even when the online reviews are terrible. Because until you place that bite on your own tongue, you’ll never truly know. And whether it delights you or disappoints you, only you can make that judgment.

It’s the same with life. People may discourage you from certain paths, telling you they’ll lead nowhere good. But no one can, or should, decide for you. The choice, and the taste of it, are yours alone.

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