Our deepest memories of a place often sneak onto our plates.

After five years of “detox” in SF, influenced by the simple yet nutritious “don't die” eating habit (a.k.a. “white people meals” in Asia)—skin a bit tanner, personality slightly hippie-fied—I now find myself instinctively craving the same simple, healthy meals wherever I go: high-protein, low-carb, gluten- and dairy-free.

Moving back to Asia, food has become a challenge. (Pet peeves can kill an elephant!) As a Chinese person who doesn’t like rice and is allergic to noodles (basically anything with wheat), explaining myself to family and friends has been an ongoing exercise in patience.


I become the weird one. 

I often get reactions like:

“Stop being such a high maintenance bitch!”

“Wait, you’re allergic to mantou? WTF!”

"Gloo...ten? What is that?!"

“Don’t drink coffee first thing in the morning!”

“No iced coffee for you!”

“Drink more hot water!”

“Eat more! Too skinny!”

People’s care often comes cross oddly controlling. And honestly, it’s annoying—I still get annoyed! Every. Simple. Time.

Please, let me eat what I want. Or not. 

But I’ve learned something along the way too: culture shapes how people show care. It’s not that they actually want to control me; it’s just that this is how they know to say, “Hey! I care about you.”

And I don’t have to respond at all. I’ve realized they’re just looking to be heard. That’s it.

So, I drink my black coffee in the morning.

I skip the rice. And no, I don’t eat breakfast.

Yes, I want some ice.

Yes, gluten = wheat. 

No is No. & no why.

It's surprising just how deep some of those routines run. In our daily habits.

Every time I order a salad instead of rice or ask if something can be made gluten-free, it’s a tiny act of rebellion—a gentle reminder that, no matter where I am, some part of me is still sitting on the back patio of a San Francisco café, sipping cold brew under a California sun.

AmAzInGgg!

In a way, these daily food choices have become two versions of myself, merged into one. They remind me that I don’t have to fit neatly into one box or the other. I can be both and more—the SF transplant who loves her morning coffee ritual, and the Chinese learning to nod, smile, and let all the well-meaning advice pass by.

And maybe that’s the biggest lesson of all: you can come home, and still carry a piece of where you’ve been, right down to what’s on your plate.