There is nothing like it. It sets off a torrent of sensations so overwhelming that your eyes close of their own accord. Few other experiences demand so much attention that we willingly relinquish our vision. Perhaps at a really good concert, when the vibrations shake your bones, or during a really good hug, when your muscles relax fully, do you shut your eyes to take it in properly. It’s as if your body knows that this will be a moment of nostalgia, a moment you’ll try and fail to recreate whenever you close your eyes. The memory of it will only ever be a ghost. It is the sort of visceral experience that is impossible to capture. But let me give it a try.
We begin with the hands. After the labor of cutting strings and pulling away lotus leaves that shred like tissue paper, your hands finally reach the treasure hidden beneath the many layers. In your eagerness, you grasp it a little too firmly, and your fingers press into the gelatinous surface. They leave dents: four clustered and a fifth alone. The already misshapen unit of food becomes even less attractive. It looks like a hunk of rice, formed by a child’s hand, smoothed over and pressed obsessively until it gave off a shiny, oily sheen. You know there are items hidden within the body of rice because some of it is already visible. Bits of meat and fat poke out, like ice bobbing on the surface of a drink. It’s really quite ugly. Good thing your eyes are closed.
Next, we have the nose. There isn’t information available for this part of your body. Just a whiff of pork, the smell of soy sauce, and the strong stench of anticipation.
The teeth are next in line. Ahhh, the teeth get all the fun. Your hand lifts up the gelatinous blob, because things like cutlery diminish the connection, and the teeth eagerly lunge forward to rip into that innocent hunk of rice. The outer layer is squishy and easy to cut through. The inner layer consists of two gifts: soft pork and even softer fat. After fitting as much as possible in your cavernous mouth, the teeth slice downward before retreating. Now begins the business of chewing. But this is nothing like chewing gum or chicken or bread. There are three utterly distinct textures with their varying densities and elasticities. The sticky rice is like a trampoline on which to frolic and bounce and laugh. The pork is a hearty hug from a loving mother, filling you up with sustenance. And the fat, oh the fat, is pure butter. Rich and flavorful and probably bad for your arteries. The teeth barely touch the fat before it falls apart to reveal its joys.
Finally, there is the brain. The brain that closed your eyes to get a better taste. The brain that has stopped the unceasing flow of thoughts because it has priorities. The brain that is about to go limp with the onslaught of dopamine and serotonin and every feel good neurotransmitter out there. The brain that is so happy, so sated by this salty treat, that it can barely string words together to form a sentence. The brain that knows all good things must come to an end, but damn if it isn’t wonderful while it lasts.
An hour later, as I sit here writing, I am surprised by the occasional burp. Each of these burps send a rush of flavor back into my mouth, a flavor so potent that I am forced to stop typing and close my eyes. It sends me straight back. Like diving into a pensieve, I am thrown into a memory of blissful consumption that I cherish each time. I wonder if these burps can be bottled somehow, contained to be used during times of great need. I think about how lackluster my entire day has been, cooped up inside an unchanging house, with nothing to look forward to and no motivation to speak of. There is a creeping sense of depression behind every hour, and I struggle to keep it at bay. But biting into this leaf-wrapped wonder is enough to push reality into the background. For a moment, all that exists is me and the zòngzi. All that exists is the explosion of taste, the interplay of textures, and the simple beauty of a well made thing.
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