By Rui Rui Zhang
Tofu skin has begun to unravel in my sister’s aged
pot. She liked to braise them in spirals, in thyme,
an herb rarely found within our Chinese dishes,
but nonetheless—thick steam’ll fog up our glasses.
We eat tofu skin with Pickled Vegetables, viewed:
a staple to some, a delicacy to others, and to the
unknowing—a foul odor. (though, it is delicious)
In time, they might come to understand the strips
of our soybean yellow culture, packed with star anise,
tainted by pride. Though yearning, we are trapped in
the brines of our own culture, locked into a bubbling jar.
Threatening to ruin with too much exposure, yet none
is an inevitable explosion. Time unravels like an herb.
Rui Rui Zhang is a high school arts student studying in the creative writing conservatory. They were born in Shanghai but now reside in LA where they work on both writing and visual arts. Outside of their creative works, they are a lover of loquats, anthropology, and listening to music.
Hot Pot Magazine 