enosh-vyys

[enosh-vyys]

Little Hand, Little Orange

Four. That's how many Shatang-Oranges I can cradle in one hand now. The smallest one sits in my palm tonight, barely covering the center crease. My partner reaches for another one across the dinner table, the plates from our meal pushed aside. The peel comes away in one long spiral under my thumbnail, a mindless habit now.

"Did you have these in the north?" my partner asks, watching me work the peel.

"Mm." I nod, the familiar scent rising. "Every winter. Boxes of them."

I was five or six then, living with my grandparents on the second floor of what felt like an enormous concrete fortress. That orange would have required both my hands, fingers spread wide against its curve. I would sit cross-legged on the cold tile floor, the fruit balanced on my knee. First, press the thumbnail in—not too deep, or juice would spray into my eye. The peel wouldn't come off in a neat spiral then. Instead, small fragments would scatter around my feet, some pieces stubbornly clinging to the flesh beneath, requiring a second, third, fourth attempt to pry them loose.

Behind me, the Nuanqi (the water-based heating system) would clank and hiss, warming the wall it ran along. Grandmother collected the peels I dropped, gathering them from the floor with practiced movements. She'd arrange them in neat rows along the heating pipe, where they would slowly curl and darken over days. The apartment always smelled of citrus in winter—sharp and sweet near the floor where I sat peeling, deeper and more complex near the ceiling where the dried peels released their oils into the steam of her soup pot.

Standing on tiptoes, I could just see over the kitchen counter where she cooked. The dried peels would float in the broth alongside pork ribs, the meat slowly separating from bone. Sometimes she'd lift me up to watch the soup simmer, my chest pressed against the counter's edge, my feet dangling above the floor.

Years ago, in that old apartment, each orange was an event. I would spend an entire afternoon with just one, examining its pores, testing different angles of attack with my small thumbnail, celebrating when a particularly large piece of peel came away intact. The segments required careful surgery then—my tiny fingers working to separate each piece without rupturing the delicate skin. Juice would run down my chin despite my best efforts. Each segment held enough sweetness to warrant a pause, a moment of consideration before the next. One orange could fill whole hours with purpose.

Now in Shenzhen, winter sneaks in differently. No clanking Nuanqi to mark the season's change, no steam rising from radiators. The chill seeps in through the glass walls of high-rises, catching us by surprise each year. We shiver in buildings designed to shed summer heat. During Spring Festival, when the streets empty and the city grows quiet, the damp cold creeps under doors and through window frames.

Sitting at our collapsible dining table, I reach for another Shatang-Orange from the bowl. The phone lights up with my grandmother's WeChat call, a flash of light in the darkening kitchen.

"How is everything? Stay healthy," she asks, the TV weather forecast murmuring in the background—a familiar rhythm from my childhood, still marking her evenings while I check tomorrow's temperature with a thumb swipe.

"As usual," I say, the same response I've given since college, through two degrees, three cities, and countless untold stories. I hear her adjusting the volume—the forecaster's voice rising briefly above the static, announcing another cold front moving south, just as they've done every winter evening since before I could remember.

"Are you lonely?" Her voice softens.

"No, I have friends here. Too busy to date." The word 'busy' stretches thin, covering too much and too little. Through the phone, I hear the emptying sounds of my grandparents' apartment—fewer visitors these days, their social circles shrinking like winter daylight. "We miss you a lot," she says. "A lot." I clutch the orange harder, its skin dimpling under my fingers.

After we hang up, I keep sitting there, reaching for one orange after another. No plate needed—a direct line from fruit bowl to trash bin, efficient like the overtime hours processing paperwork at my desk. Somewhere between my finance degree and my arts administration master's, between the heavy art books I once carried from dorm to dorm, between all the dreams of becoming either a sophisticated banker or a cultured arts curator, I've landed here: pushing papers, following procedures, checking boxes. The oranges are so small now. Were they always this small?

I count them as I eat—one, two, three—monitoring my intake like I monitor my hours, my career progress, my words on the phone with family. The segments yield too easily, dissolving before satisfaction sets in. When did I start hesitating before reaching for another, calculating the proper number to consume? That little boy never counted. He just ate until the juice ran down his chin, until his stomach was full, until joy was complete.

Each orange leaves a hollow space, like the gap between the gilded futures I once highlighted in those textbooks and this present moment. Yet here in my modern kitchen, my partner's presence fills the room with a different kind of warmth than the old Nuanqi—not better or worse, just different. Perhaps my grandparents too once held stories they couldn't share, dreams they set aside. Perhaps happiness doesn't drain from one generation to fill another, like water moving through old heating pipes. It multiplies, takes new forms, finds its own way to flow.

The bowl is almost empty now. My fingers smell of citrus, a scent that bridges decades. Time folds like a piece of peel between my hands. Somewhere, a small boy still sits cross-legged on a cold floor, juice running down his chin, staining his fingers with sweetness. His world extends no further than the next successful segment, the next burst of flavor. The oranges tower in his small palms like mountains to be conquered. No one has told him yet about moderation, about proper paths, about measuring joy in acceptable portions.

If I could, I would watch him a while longer—this patient architect of tiny pleasures, this unbound spirit who knows exactly what he wants. I would tell him about the orchards in Shenzhen, about fingers that grow strong enough to peel any fruit. About how love finds its own language, even in silence. About how happiness, like the scent of oranges, can fill a room without asking permission. But perhaps it's better to let him discover each orange as it comes, one difficult, perfect segment at a time.

The fruit in my palm now is exactly the same size it was then, its dimpled skin reflecting the yellow kitchen light like it once caught the glow of the Nuanqi. Only the hands have changed - these adult fingers that have learned to navigate subway cards and corporate ID badges are now too busy to remember something as simple as finding sweetness in an orange. Almost losing my balance, trying to hold both memory and present, both silence and joy, both what was and what is.

Across the small table, my partner reaches for the last orange in the bowl, splits it, and without a word, offers me half. The segments in this half are so easy to hold now, to take a bite, sweet as I had ever imagined. Perhaps that's enough—a shared orange, a story that resists telling but fills the space between all the segments.

[enosh-vyys]

Chewing Memories in a Bowl: A Culinary Tale in Japan

Let me share a secret: I can taste a person’s personality. Occasionally, when I interact with someone, flavors unfold on my palate—dark chocolate's bitterness or the earthy notes of damp grass. I used to dismiss it as a quirky imagination until I read Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin's words: "Tell me what you eat, and I will tell you what you are." It made me wonder if, perhaps, I could sense how food nurtures a person and shapes their character.

This realization ignited my passion for exploring the world through my taste buds. Every new city excites me with its hidden bistros, bustling bars, and secret food stalls. I immerse myself in the local cuisine, savoring each bite while the hum of chitchat surrounds me. Sometimes, amid the flavors of the food, I detect another taste—the essence of someone's personality. It sparks my curiosity about their story and the experiences that seasoned them.

Dining at ChynChinRoRin Izakaya was entirely unplanned. My friend, my partner, and I had mapped out an ambitious itinerary for Japan—four cities and a climb up Tateyama Mountain in just seven days—-leaving  little room for proper meals; most times, we grabbed quick bites from convenience stores. But on our sole night in Kanazawa, a rare pocket of free time emerged. While our friend took a nap at the hotel, my partner and I slipped out to explore the local appetite.

We initially set our sights on a place called Home Family Dine, which we'd found on Google. Upon arrival, however, we saw that all eight of its seats were occupied. Unsure how long we'd have to wait in the crisp fall air, we quickly searched for another option. That's when we spotted ChynChinRoRin Izakaya—a modest establishment nestled in a residential area on the city's west side. It had a 4.2-star rating, a few casual comments, and unpolished photos. It seemed charmingly uncommercial, so we decided to give it a try.

The izakaya was located away at the end of a quiet street lined with small houses. A white lightbox with hand-written hiragana spelling "ChynChinRoRin" in red rested by the door. Warm light filtered through narrow wooden lattice windows, and the faint scent of yakiniku sauce flew into the air, inviting us inside. The building exuded the nostalgic charm of the Shōwa era, with aged wooden beams and a welcoming glow. The first floor housed the dining area, while the second floor served as the home of the elderly couple who owned the place.

Inside, to the right, a counter with eight seats faced the open kitchen where the old man cooked and the old woman served. On the left, two tiny tatami-mat tables awaited those willing to sit traditionally. Stacks of sake bottles and draft beer kegs lined the back wall.

"Ma~ma!" called a young man near the door holding a beer in his hand. "New customers!" The old woman glanced up from behind the counter, her eyes lighting up as she welcomed us. The foreign accent of our Japanese must be very obvious, as smiles spread among the patrons. Noticing our hesitation, a middle-aged couple gestured for us to join them at the far end of the counter.

The owner seemed surprised by our visit. Curiosity flickered in her eyes as she asked how we had found the place. When we mentioned its rating on Google, she looked astonished; she didn't own a smartphone and seemed unaware of her restaurant's online acclaim.

The aroma of sizzling food embraced us. We ordered yakitori and were delighted when generous portions of tender, grilled chicken arrived, alongside a hearty serving of yakisoba. Each bite was a comforting blend of flavors, reminiscent of a home-cooked meal. As we ate and sipped our drinks, conversation flowed easily with the couple beside us. They were from Toyama City—our next destination—and shared that nowhere else had yakisoba portions as generous or chicken pieces as sizable as here.

"Eat as much as you want," the woman said with a blink. "No need to care about the judgment of others." We nodded and took a big bite of the yakisoba as if we had discovered a well-kept secret.

These homey tastes stirred memories of another kitchen, where my mom made her improvised stew. They say a person's childhood shapes their palate. I often wonder where my fondness for foreign cuisine comes from. The sour and spicy notes of Thai food energize me; Japanese soy sauce mixed with wasabi evokes memories of the sea; macaroni and cheese submerge me in comforting satisfaction. These flavors weren't part of my childhood repertoire.

My mother was never a skilled cook, though living alone in Beijing as an independent career woman required her to fend for herself. Her signature dish was a stew—a medley of whatever was left in the refrigerator, chopped into half-inch cubes and seasoned with white pepper, soy sauce, vinegar, and occasionally mysterious traditional Chinese spices unearthed from the depths of a drawer. Visits to her during summer or winter breaks were rare, as I was mostly raised by my grandparents in a small city. When we did spend time together, she was eager to showcase her culinary 'talents.' She called herself a creative fusion chef, improvising without recipes, much like she approached her role as a parent. She claimed she provided the best love alongside the best food.

At one dinner, she asked me to identify the ingredients in her stew as usual. Her gentle smile contrasted with furrowed brows, leaving me uncertain. A dry, sour, salty taste settled on my tongue, overshadowing the actual flavors. I chewed carefully, trying to find clues among the doughy carrots and squishy onions, but her improvisations made it nearly impossible. I failed. Then, she lost control, and her yell turned into an accusation of my life. Her face tightened. “You are such a cold-hearted person!” she exclaimed, the frustration in her voice barely masked. I could sense that her disappointment wasn't just about the stew; it was about everything unspoken between us—the years apart and perhaps her own unspoken regrets. I wanted to comfort her, to tell her that I understood, but I didn't know how. I was just a child, feeling the weight of emotions too heavy for me to carry. She pressed on, “You have turned all my sacrifice into bubbles.” Her words stung, layering guilt over my helplessness. 

After the meal, while washing dishes in her narrow kitchen, I sifted through cluttered cupboards, attempting to piece together the puzzle of her sacrifices. I tried to understand her solitary life in Beijing—her nostalgia, career struggles, and pride in being a female engineer. I convinced myself that every choice made was the best possible one, that being a 'left-behind' child was worthwhile. Perhaps, I thought, being the perfect child who appreciates her cuisine more would bridge the gap between us. I began hiding my thoughts and tried harder to pretend that nothing had happened between her and my father.

I crafted a comforting illusion: that her stew was a cherished family recipe, surpassing even dishes from three-star Michelin restaurants. Yet, all my rationality told me it wasn't true—it was just a messy stew flavored with pepper, salt, and expired vinegar.

This inconsistency gnawed at me, like a silent worm burrowing through my thoughts. Despite my efforts, nothing seemed to bring her joy. Finally, after another failed recipe test, we bursted into a big fight, and she claimed I was such a dishonor to the family that only death could redeem my guilt. Her anger hung heavy in the air, creating a paralyzing taste unable to describe. 

After that, I chose to distance myself, and the stew never appeared again in my life.

“May I smoke here?” my partner's voice pulled me back into the izakaya. Seeing the relaxed faces of the young men surrounded by wisps of smoke made him want to join. “Sure, just help yourself,” the old man replied cheerfully, producing an ashtray. Unlike the younger generations, smoking was part of the trendy culture during Japan's Shōwa era. I thought to myself that maybe only someone as generous as him could create such delicious and sizable meals.

I felt so at home yet so lost in this place. I had always dreamed of family dinners, eating and chatting around the dining table while introducing my partner to everyone. Here, I was enjoying food and companionship with my partner without any pressure. But, I knew I didn't truly belong—I hadn't grown up in the neighborhood; we didn't share the same cultural background; I couldn't even express my sentimental but happy feelings at that moment with words. I managed to tell the elderly couple in broken Japanese, “Shiyawase na ichinichi” (A day full of joy). The language barrier couldn't stop me from wishing to linger, contemplating a nighttime walk after such a fulfilling dinner.

We finished every morsel on our plates, even the green onions. After quickly washing our hands, we said, “Arigato gozaimasu!” (Thank you very much) and bowed to the old couple, as if we were frequent visitors from the neighborhood. “Mata kondo!” (Please come again next time), Mama said with a courteous smile. We carefully closed the aged wooden sliding door behind us and stepped out. It was completely dark outside. The restaurant's box-shaped illuminated sign had been switched off, and the wind breezed along with scratches of coolness.

Excitement washed over me. I jabbered about how wonderful the place was and how generous and warm the old couple were, trying to mitigate my burning desire to chew. Yet, there was only emptiness in my mouth.

[enosh-vyys]

The Massive Escape from Shenzhen: One-Weekend Expat to Nan’ao Island

Nan’ao Island, 6-hour-drive away from Shenzhen, is located at the the east corner of Guangdong Province. The town is famous for its Chaoshan origin, one of the most ancient heritage of Cantonese culture.

The trip was booked in a sudden as a comfort for my past 4 months’ exhausting overtime working. Instead of driving by ourselves, my bf and I chose to travel there by express train and rent a car from the rental at the train station.

I booked a BMW online, and I was so hooked up to the luxury driving experience during the whole weekdays before we departed. Yet, the car surprised us at our first glimpse with how crappy it was—it exactly just crushed.

Then we drove one hour to the island. On the way, we passed a few lighthouses. The scale of the lighthouse was much smaller than I expected.

Then we drove along the road to our apartment. Booking an apartment comparing to Iiving in the hotel is a better way to experience the local culture, and I was very glad that I made this choice. Our apartment was use by the food market, and the restaurants by the street were brilliant with seafood. We randomly walked into a place called ‘Qiqi Seafood Family Dine’ without any research online while the APPs nowadays provide too much ads instead of real experiences and comments. The chief surely made the best stir fried clams, and the black bean sauce was a perfect match.

We spent the most of the following day by the beach. The weather was kind of windy, and the wave was shaking. Yet, it was still chilling to let everything go and merge yourself into the sea.

Dinner was another peak of the day—a fest for any seafood lover. All the dishes were freshly off the boat. Among all of them, seaweeds fried rice enriched my soul!!! I had never tasted any fried rice as amazing as this one! Seaweeds is the essence of the ocean. To bring all the wonderful dishes home with me, I stored them on me as fat lolll. Look forward to visiting Nan’ao again!

[enosh-vyys]

A Pearl

It has been a while since the last time I heard an album filled with such dubious and dazzlingly imaginative cords. Mitski brings the listener to dive into the ocean of her ambient progressions, and the one is flushed by her smooth but powerful guitar and base lines from unpredictable directions. A Pearl is the fourth song of the album, in which she poetically compares the progress of sealing a bitter romantic memory to how a shell produces a pearl. Her voice, wrapped in calm and self-control, flows like the undergoing ocean current, obscure but steady, and hidden in which is her precise depiction of the shell’s struggle to secrete layers of nacre to protect its soft body with a series of rough augment cords. Finally, the intrusive bitter memory is transformed into a pearl, which would be beautiful only if it is hang on the other’s neck instead of being caught in the fragile flesh.

[enosh-vyys]

梦带我游向仙境

那里光与水相连

外物在其中沉浸

生命和死亡相依

没有瞬间，没有永恒

[enosh-vyys]

鈍感力

「それぞれの世界で、それなりの成功をおさめた人々は、才能はもちろん、その底に、必ずいい意味での鈍感力を秘めているものです。鈍感、それはまさしく本来の才能を育み、花咲かせる、最大の力です。」

二ヵ月ぐらいの間で、ジャクさんと一緒に渡辺淳一さんの鈍感力という本を読みました。最初から、私は一章を読むことが二時間ぐらいかかったけど、今一時間ぐらいだけかかります。この本で、作家さんは人生の成功するために、いい意味の鈍感力がなければならないものだと記しました。本を読んでいた時、私はずっと鈍感力の中心は何だかと考えてきました。自分の経験を使って、作家さんの文章を理解して、私は人生をよく生きるため、鈍感力が自分の感情を管理して、精神的なバランスを得られる能力かも知れないと考えます。客観的な事実を変えることが難しいので、自分の感情と心を広げて、精神の平和を得た方がいいと思いました。

私は他の国に住む適応力と社会人の鈍感力を読んだら、感想があります。社会人と言えば、作家さんは会社で生き残る鈍感力を説明しました。作家さんは、人々と言えば、色々な性格があるので、性格のせいの不機嫌もあります。其のごろ、自分が気付いて改めることがあるし、改めない時もたくさんあります。そしたら、作家さんは他の人より、自分の気持ちを変えることを勧めました。でも、私は作家さんと違うように思います。短期と言えば、我慢して、不快なことを乗りこえるかもしれませんが、長期的な忍耐は精神の限界値をチャレンジすることがあります。他人も、私も、人生は一回だけ生きて、自分の方だけが我慢して、他人の不適切な行為を許さなくてならないのは、一体何故ですか。それは限界を超えるいい忍耐力ですが、自慢なところほどにはまだ至りません。

彼も、他の国に適応するために、其の鈍感力も必要だという論点を書きました。そこまで読んだら、自分が初めて米国へ行った記憶を思い出した。皆さんと同じように、私は留学の準備のために、色々と米国と中国のどこが違うについての文章を読みました。でも、大学について本物のアメリカ人と喋って、観察して、結局、人類は人類だけにすぎないと発見しました。其の時、私は中米の相違点があったけど、やはり似たようなことが多いと考えた。さらに、私は私なりのまま、ついに米国社会に入り込めると信じました。其の後、私は不同な学生のクラブに入って、もっとアメリカ人と付き合って、最初の私が本当にナーイブだと思いました。大学四年生の時、ある米国人に「結構アメリカ人っぽい」みたいな言葉となんか褒めてくれたがっているような気がしました。たぶん、アメリカ人にとって、外国人が「米国文化に慣れる」と「除け者」二つだけの存在だと思い始めた。文化的な相違点は私が思ったより、もっと強い存在です。