Part 2: The Dumpling That Passed the Interrogation

The water is boiling; The dumplings are ready,and the time has come for every food critique to arrive at that inevitable point: The time of truth; The time when all the fancy words, all the poetic imagery, all the fancy angles of the camera, and my insane sentimental feelings about frozen dough are put to the test.

The First Bite

I pick one up. It is almost too pretty to eat, almost. But let’s be honest. Respectfully admiring food is a beautiful thing. Eating it is even more beautiful. A dumpling‘s ultimate purpose is not to sit there looking like a tiny edible sculpture while I write it a love letter. A dumpling wants to be eaten. A dumpling dreams of fulfilling its destiny. And who am I to deny a dumpling its purpose in life? Into my mouth it goes. And immediately… My brain stops working. This happens occasionally. Usually during moments of extreme emotion: Seeing something breathtaking, hearing a beautiful piece of music, discovering a life-changing revelation, or, apparently, eating a pork and cabbage dumpling. My vocabulary disappears; My sophisticated food-blogger analysis disappears; My carefully prepared sentences disappear. All that remains is: “… (moan)” Then: “… (moan.” Then: “…(moan again).” The first thing I notice is how incredibly smooth everything feels: the wrapper is tender, and the filling is generous. Nothing feels aggressive. Nothing is fighting for attention. It’s not the loud: “LOOK AT ME!” kind of food that comes with artificial flavorings or too much seasoning and drama. No, it just is. Quietly. Confidently. Like a person who doesn’t feel that they have to walk into a room with a bang because they are going to be noticed anyway. The pork and cabbage combination feels familiar: Comforting, like a memory you didn’t realize you had been missing. The cabbage brings sweetness; The pork brings richness. Together, they create that classic dumpling feeling: the feeling of sitting somewhere warm while the outside world becomes slightly less terrifying. And then… The strangest thing happens: It slides. No. Really. It slides. This dumpling does not enter my mouth like a normal piece of food. It arrives with a passport; it skips customs; it politely ignores all the security checks; it simply moves forward like, “Excuse me, I know exactly where I’m going.” Down the throat, past the chest, straight toward happiness. I don’t even know how to explain it. It is almost suspiciously cooperative. Some foods require negotiation: You chew, you analyze, you fight through textures. You need a strategy, or you might even choke, like in my Fish Bone incident. This one feels like it has already completed the paperwork before arriving. My mouth is effectively saying: “Thank you for your service. Please proceed directly.” At this point, I start laughing. Because only I could be moved emotionally by a dumpling‘s efficiency in transportation. But that’s the thing about food: The best food isn’t just about flavour; it creates a feeling, and this creates a very specific feeling: relief. In a world where everything seems complicated, this tiny dumpling is wonderfully uncomplicated. It tastes like food. This is not a science experiment. This is not a chemistry test. This is not some sort of mysterious object that requires me to open seventeen browser tabs before deciding whether I should trust it. Just… a dumpling, A good, honest dumpling. And then I remember… Oh no. The scandal, the reason I was supposed to be cautious, the reason everyone in Taiwan has recently become an ingredient detective. I freeze. The chopsticks stop halfway. Slowly my eyes drift towards the packaging. Happiness is great, but curiosity is deadly. And there is one thing that I am afflicted with from birth – the desire to know everything, including things that could spoil my happiness.

This is the exact moment where my personality creates internal conflict. One side of me says, “Don’t check.” “You’re happy.” “Enjoy the moment.” “Sometimes ignorance is bliss.” The other side—the nutrition-course graduate, ingredient-reading, label-inspecting, annoying health-conscious version of me—has already put on a detective hat. She is holding a magnifying glass. She is wearing a tiny Sherlock Holmes coat. She is screaming: “WE NEED ANSWERS.” So I do what any reasonable person would do: I investigate. The package comes closer. The ingredient list becomes my crime scene: Flour, Cabbage, Pork, Water, Green onion, Ginger, Sugar, Soy sauce, Salt, and Sesame oil.

… Hold on a second. Stop right there. Go back. Sesame oil? Eyes wide open. SESAME OIL? All of a sudden, this isn’t just an ingredients list. It’s a plot twist. It’s a revelation from a movie. The background music changes. The lights go up. Someone, somewhere, narrates: “She has found her answer.” For you see, in an era of questionable oils, questionable processing, and wondering whether even the most trustworthy of brands will lead you astray…there I am staring into the eyes of two beautiful words: “sesame oil.” No surprises, no shady ingredients hiding behind a confusing label, nothing to make me go on a paranoid research binge regarding my health. Sesame oil. A familiar ingredient; An ingredient I recognize; An ingredient that makes me breathe again. And yes, I realize how ridiculous I sound. I’m having an emotional breakthrough with an ingredient list. Most people read ingredient labels and see information. I read ingredient labels and apparently experience a full cinematic journey. My life has reached a point where sesame oil can elicit the same emotional reaction that other people reserve for marriage proposals: “Will you be there for me?” “Will you protect me?” “Will you never betray me?” “Sesame oil?” “Yes.” “I do.” At this point, I burst out laughing, because maybe this is who I am. Maybe I am that person who is able to survive natural disasters, medical catastrophes, and all of the most outrageous happenings in life, yet still get dramatic about the ingredients of dumplings. And guess what? I’m fine with that. Because maybe optimism is not about the belief that nothing bad ever occurs; It’s not about ignoring the imperfections in this world. Optimism is looking at reality—the good, the bad, the terrifying, the ridiculous—and still choosing to believe there are reasons to smile. Even if that reason happens to be a tiny handmade dumpling with sesame oil. Especially then. Because sometimes hope doesn’t wear a superhero cape to come to you; sometimes it comes to you folded up into tiny pleats; Sometimes hope comes from the refrigerator and sometimes hope comes when you realize how good something as simple as eating a dumpling can be. And other times… you just have to eat one more because the world might try to burst your bubble.

Part 3: The Health Snob Who Fell in Love With a Dumpling

And now….I must come clean, an admission that will undoubtedly tear down all the efforts I’ve made to maintain my carefully constructed image as a health-conscious food critic, something that may cause every nutrition student I have ever met to slowly back away from me: I am a hypocrite, A deliciously happy hypocrite. Because once upon a time… I was that person, you know the type: the person who reads ingredient labels like they are decoding ancient forbidden manuscripts; The person who can turn a simple grocery trip into a three-hour archaeological excavation; The person standing in the supermarket aisle holding a product while everyone else has already gone home:

Everyone: “Are you coming?”

Me: “Wait. I need to investigate the emulsifier situation.”

Yes. I became that person. After studying nutrition, I developed what can only be described as a completely unreasonable relationship with ingredients. I wasn’t just health-conscious; I became a health detective, A food FBI agent, A tiny ingredient police officer living permanently inside my own brain:

Cream? Suspicious.
Whipped cream? Under investigation.
Trans fat? Immediate arrest.
Condensed milk? Please remain where you are. We need to ask you some questions.

My younger self would look at my current self eating a frozen dumpling and probably collapse dramatically onto the floor:

“Excuse me?” “YOU?” “The person who complained about ingredients?” “The person who examined food labels longer than fashion magazines?” “You are eating frozen processed food?”

Yes. Yes, younger me. Come sit down. We need to talk, because life has a funny way of humbling people. Especially people like me: people who think they have everything figured out; people who create strict rules; people who believe they have achieved some kind of nutritional enlightenment. And then life comes along and says, “That’s adorable.” “Now eat this.” And suddenly you realize… Maybe food is not always about perfection; Maybe health is not about creating a prison made entirely out of rules; Maybe wellness is not about being afraid of every ingredient you cannot pronounce; Maybe sometimes… It is about balance, because look at me. I am a person who has had experiences which I would not have thought I was going to make it out alive from: Experiences that my body has gone through, True experiences, experiences where my doctors, odds, and situations have all been in a discussion without me. But somehow… Here I am, still laughing, still eating, still recording myself talking to food like it is my roommate. If my body can survive everything else life has thrown at it… Then surely it can make it through this dumpling. Maybe there’s room for a little more happiness in every bite. And isn’t that the entire point of food? It’s not just fuel, it’s not just statistics and percentages of macronutrients and micronutrients; it’s memories, comfort, culture, and connection – a temporary break from the incessant yelling of the world. And the dumpling provides all of this. It helps me remember something I often neglect to keep in mind: Being healthy does not mean being afraid; Being informed does not mean being paranoid; Knowing more does not mean enjoying less. Actually… Knowing more enables me to enjoy things more often, since I can now see more in this dumpling than just a frozen product; I see craftsmanship; I see someone taking the time to create those delicate folds; I see a familiar Taiwanese flavour combination that generations have loved; I see a company making something simple:

• pork
• cabbage
• dough
• seasoning

A tiny package containing something incredibly ordinary… yet somehow incredibly comforting. And maybe that’s why this whole experience feels bigger than a dumpling. Because lately, everyone has been tired- tired of bad news, Tired of disappointment, Tired of discovering that things we trusted were not always what we thought they were. Every scandal takes away a tiny piece of our innocence; Every headline makes us question something else: Can we trust this brand? Can we trust this product? Can we trust what we are eating? And honestly? Those questions matter. We should ask them; We should care; But somewhere along the way, I hope we don’t lose the ability to enjoy the good things that remain. Because if we do… The scandals win twice: First, they take away our trust; Then they take away our happiness; And I refuse, absolutely refuse. I have already lost enough things in life. I am not giving up dumplings, either. Sorry. The universe has limits; My optimism has limits, but my love for dumplings? Apparently endless.

I take another bite, and yes, it is still good. The world is far from over. The bubble is unbroken, undamaged. People keep telling me, “You are too optimistic.” “You are too naive.” “You are living in a dreamworld.” Maybe I am, but I know one thing for sure—that world has brought me through some very dark moments indeed. That optimistic attitude that everyone mocks? It got me out of bed; It helped me laugh when I had every reason not to; It helped me believe tomorrow might be different; And maybe that’s why I refuse to completely destroy my bubble, Because people misunderstand bubbles: They think bubbles are fragile; They think a bubble means someone is unaware of reality; But maybe sometimes a bubble is something else; Maybe it’s a tiny protective layer of hope, A little space where you can breathe, A little reminder that not everything is broken, A little place where a person can sit with a plate of dumplings and say: “Yes, the world is complicated.” “Yes, bad things happen.” “Yes, we should pay attention.” “But also…” “This is delicious.” And sometimes that is enough; sometimes surviving means more than just staying alive; sometimes surviving means still being able to enjoy something: still being able to laugh, still being able to get ridiculously excited over sesame oil, still being able to look at a tiny handmade dumpling and think: “Wow.” “Life is actually pretty amazing.”

Maybe I’m naïve. Maybe I’m absurd. Maybe I’m that person people tell you to stay away from. But after all that… I guess I’ll just be that person. Because some how… against all odds… This ridiculous optimism of mine has worked pretty well so far, and if the universe wants to prove me wrong? Fine. It can try. But first… It will have to get through me and my dumplings. Good luck with that.

Imei Foods Taiwan handmade pork and cabbage dumplings

Imei Foods Taiwan handmade pork and cabbage dumplings

Imei Foods Taiwan handmade pork and cabbage dumplings

Imei Foods Taiwan handmade pork and cabbage dumplings

Imei Foods Taiwan handmade pork and cabbage dumplings

Imei Foods Taiwan handmade pork and cabbage dumplings

Imei Foods Taiwan handmade pork and cabbage dumplings

Imei Foods Taiwan handmade pork and cabbage dumplings