Thursday, October 7, 2004

The holidays are quickly approaching, gentle reader, so I’ll tell you an anecdote about Christmastime on Long Island. In Asian culture, and I’ll qualify this further by pinpointing Taiwanese culture, food is synonymous with love. Now, having lived in the States all my life, a cinnamon roll looks precisely like a cinnamon roll to me. It’s a different story in Taiwan, where the same cinnamon roll resembles a glazed bear hug while a bear claw, or so I’ve heard, resembles a gigantic love elephant.

My sister and I came home from college, which of course meant my mum purchased enough food to feed my sister, our dozen evil clones, and me. One night, I awoke with a burning need for water. I descended the stairs, entered the kitchen, and poured myself a refreshing cup. I also spied a bag of cookies, and we all know that bags of cookies were made to be open.

The cookies looked absolutely delicious, small rectangles of sugar and fat that promised an exponential amount of holiday cheer. I gingerly untied the festive red ribbon, opened the package, removed a cookie, and savored a nibble. Funny thing was, I couldn’t nibble it.

“Oh, Wolfgang Puck it!” I probably thought.

I turned the bag over and practiced my ability to read. The package was meant for our dog, but I suppose it made me its bitch that night. The experience, as did the cookie, left a bitter aftertaste in my mouth. Literally.