A love letter to these wonton noodles I made

One of my deepest joys in cooking comes from recreating dishes from other chapters in my life.
It’s the most empowering thing, realizing that a taste and smell and the feelings associated
aren’t locked up forever in my memories, and I don’t need to somehow find my way across
continents and oceans to get them back.

And so I present to you these wontons over noodles, served with sweet pork sauce. To my
knowledge nothing in this dish is secret or sacred; the wontons are made according to an
Andrew Zimmern recipe, the pork sauce is from a Taiwanese cookbook I have, and the noodles
are from my local Asian grocery. But together they remind me viscerally of a favorite chapter in
my life, the one where I lived in Taiwan.

I always find it so difficult to explain how much I loved my time in Taiwan and what it meant to
me. Taiwan is a place that accosts all your senses all the time, even the senses you have no
name for. That wild sense of “other” that tells you you’re not in Kansas anymore. The sense of
power when you watch yourself doing a simple task with ease and remember how terrifying
that same task felt a month ago. The sense of community, of belonging and unbelonging, the
subtle and irreversible stretch of your horizons.

This dish is my attempt at recreating one I used to order from a small shop in my neighborhood
in Taipei. But if I’m being completely honest, I don’t know how closely my version of wonton
noodles resembles the original. My memory is made of vague impressions—the bounce of the
wontons, the umami of the pork sauce over the noodles, the rich balance of savory and sweet.
And I can’t replicate the sounds of evening traffic up and down Bei An Lu, the melody of a trash
truck rolling by a few streets over, the back-of-the-mind cacophony of chatter in Mandarin
coming from a TV in the corner, the noodle lady serving up orders, other patrons and
passersby, the smells of cooking soaked into every pore of the cramped space, the humid air so
sticky you’ll peel yourself from the little stool you’re perched on in a few minutes when you
stand.

But I can still remember the deep personal satisfaction of having successfully ordered a dish in
another language, at a shop where I couldn’t read the menu, and the intoxicating high of that
tiny win. I can remember the elation in knowing I could go back and order the same dish
tomorrow, and next week, and every week if I wanted. I can remember feeling full and happy.

And here I am now, in my home in Utah, summoning all these indescribable tastes and feelings
and memories into my tiny kitchen that’s too small to hold them all, into this simple dish that’s
too delicious not to share. So do you want to come over? I’d love to make you a bowl.