Voiceless Enjoyment

Preamble:
Like a symphony of flavors and scents that traverse the boundaries of personal experience and geography, there exists a taste that transcends time and place. This indelible and nostalgia-laden sensation, tingling on the edge of my taste buds, mirrors a gentle breeze sweeping across the Earth's expanse, touching every corner of my memory. This essay explores the profound connection between taste and memory, as a singular flavor evokes sensations of warmth, identity, and cherished recollections, much like a sunbeam breaking through a snowy day, a bridge uniting Beijing and Boston, and a long-forgotten childhood toy that whispers tales of days gone by.

Voiceless Enjoyment
The ice rink in downtown Beijing was not too crowded. I bypassed the wandering crowd and made my way to the rest area in my "high heels."

I brushed off the stubborn ice fragments that clung to my figure skating blades. Those crystal beads melted into tiny lazy puddles of liquid as they sprinkled on the ground. They seemed to be too comfortable to maintain their original toughness in the face of the sudden warmth and decided to relinquish it. As I bent down to untie the intricately twisted shoelaces of my skates, I watched their silent transformation.

After releasing my numb feet from the heavy and restrictive skates, I opened my figure skating bag and searched for tissues to wipe my flushed and runny nose, which had endured the stimulation of being exposed to the icy dry conditions. Without the cold breeze directly stinging my face, I gradually shed my armor of speed and passion, returning to being an ordinary girl who embraced warmth and comfort. The weight of concentration and seriousness I held in figure skating seemed to dissipate all at once, giving way to a sudden feeling of hunger. I smiled and thought, "It's time to eat dinner."

"Where would you like to go for dinner?" my mother asked.

"Let's eat at the same place!" I replied.

Among the numerous dining options near the ice rink, I preferred a traditional Chinese restaurant. Playfully swinging my figure skating bag, I anticipated my favorite dish: wonton soup. Even the thought of the hot steam rising from the bubbling soup and caressing my face was irresistible.

"May I have a bowl of wonton soup, please?" I asked.

As I breathed in the aroma of the wonton soup, I couldn't resist lifting the hot bowl, allowing the warmth to seep into my hands and spread throughout my body. Picking up the spoon, the soup flowed like silk and ribbons, cradling a plump yet delicate wonton. Gently biting open the dough wrapper revealed the rich filling, which spilled out. Various meats and vegetables wrapped in the tender wrapper, like a big happy family living together. As I savored this happiness filling my stomach, I found myself lost in silent enjoyment.

This silent enjoyment accompanied me from China to the United States. After settling in Boston, I would seek out that familiar taste after every figure skating session. While there were no restaurants nearby serving wonton soup, I could still enjoy the wonton soup made by my mother and relive the clash of cold and warmth experienced on the other side of the Earth.

One day, after returning home from training at the ice rink, an intimate aroma wafted over my face. I was drawn to the stove and caught the fresh and enticing scent of wonton soup. Watching the wontons in the pot luxuriate in the "hot spring," sometimes tumbling, sometimes playfully interacting.

"How does my wonton soup taste?" my mother asked.

I cradled the bowl in both hands against my chest, lowered my head, and reached for the spoon. "Delicious! It's the taste of nostalgia... " I replied.