The Search for the Sour: A Different Kind of Consumer

Unlike other people, I am no ordinary consumer of fruits. I am that client that would make a fruit vendor reconsider his or her career choice by asking them “Do you have anything that is not sweet?” And here is some awkward silence. Not just any silence but the type that leaves a man wielding a knife while slicing a watermelon to pause and rethink his decisions in life.

“…excuse me?”

“Something sour, the more sour, the better; and bitter will do as well.” It’s not only a sale of the product at this stage. No sir, they are now observing the buyer. “Her brains are not okay. I left her at one-month-old since I could tell that she didn’t like sweet.”

Western Propaganda and the “Apple a Day” Myth

This was not how I came into this world. This is what I became: I was raised in the West, in a society where kids sell lemonade, almost part of some ritual of growing up. But their lemonade? Not even real lemonade. Just sugar, water, and some lemon. Not real. As I stood there, a freak among the rest, with my yellow skin, squeezing a lemon for its life, no sugar, no water, just the lemon and agony and the taste of bitterness.

Then, comes apple. Along with another disgusting Western propaganda: “An apple a day keeps the doctor away.” I agree with it. How can I not? For, I am a kid who must make sure to behave properly and not show my strange sides. Hence, I eat the apple. Everyday. Crunch. Sweet. Juicy. Sweet. Crisp. Sweet. Constantly sweet. This particular sweet that scratches my soul from the wrong places but makes me swallow it nevertheless since I need it to stay “healthy,” to do what’s “right,” to be just right in general. And after all this, when suddenly—

My body crashes into a stroke. Disconnecting reality with one simple move. Lost balance. Lost control. Lost identity. The doctor? Ready at once. And so was I delivered to him.

Suffocating in the Sugar-Coated Hallucination of Taiwan

I come back to Taiwan, the so-called “Fruit Kingdom.” This is supposed to be paradise. Instead, it feels like a sugar-coated hallucination: Mangoes— sweet like early-stage love that will absolutely ruin you. Pineapples— sweet like promises nobody intends to keep. Bananas— sweet like unwanted affection. Everything is sweet. Everything is too much. I am suffocating in fructose.

So My mom embarks on actual missions. Mission trips. A seventy-something-year-old going from market stalls begging for any kind of fruit which looks like it’s had enough of living: “Have you got anything that’s not sweet?” The stallholders just look at her. “Well… maybe… something sour?” Blank looks. “…Even bitter will do!” Worried faces. She returns to me, who’s begging her for something empty-handed mostly. And when she looks at me apologetically and whispers, “I’ll try my best, but it’s really tough,” I seriously tell her: “Beg for their old stocks. Bargain with it. I’m saving up for you.”

The Arrival of the Organic Green Plum

But today things turn out to be completely different. Without warning my mom walks in and hands me this “…this is from the Farmers’ Association.” I stand frozen in place. I understand that feeling of dread all too well. Hope can kill you. Hope is how the sugar gets to you. I cautiously get close to the bag, waiting for it to blow up in my face. The label says in a somewhat regretful manner that “This is organically grown. Spots and imperfections allowed. They do not affect the taste. Feel free to purchase.” I almost start laughing. This is suddenly brought back to me that there is a culture in which you need to explain Spots and Imperfections.

I open the bag. There is a rush of odour in my nostrils. Not a scent. Not an aroma. An assault. It is as if invisible needles are injected through the nostrils, moving upward to trigger some sort of primal response within my brain. My body responds even before my mind can process. The saliva glands are stimulated in a vicious manner. I haven’t even taken a bite yet, but my body surrenders. “Are you sure this is edible?” my mother asks. I remain silent.

Impact: The Taste of Pure Honesty

I reach in and pick one. It’s firm, uneven, slightly rough—unapologetically real. I bring it to my nose and inhale. And something inside me opens. I bite with no hesitation. My teeth break through the skin— And then— Impact. Not taste, Impact.

The sourness doesn’t arrive; it collides. Like a truck losing control and crashing straight into my mouth, flattening everything in its path before shooting up into my brain.

My eyes water instantly: Not emotional, Biological. My body cannot handle this level of honesty; tears spill out. Uninvited. Uncontrolled. My jaw is still moving. My tongue is shaking. My throat tightens. There is no sweetness. None. Zero. I wait. I doubt. I search for it like a trauma response. Maybe it’s hiding in the aftertaste? No.

Only acid. Pure, clean, uncompromising acidity. Clean. Harsh. Honest. I laugh as tears pour down my face. As if I have discovered evidence that I am not alone in this world. “Is it any good?” my mom inquires. I look at her with tear-filled eyes and a face that has been tortured by all that has been said. Yes. This is the truth. The truest thing I have ever tasted.

Conclusion: No More Sugar-Coated Truths

And I continue. Plum after plum after plum. Bite after bite after bite. It feels as if my entire life has been spent swallowing lies because of sugar-coated truths. I know my tongue is reprogramming itself right now.

This one kilogram of organic green plums is not food. It is proof. Proof that there is something out there that does not care about accommodating others. Proof that when you taste sourness, you do not have to apologize for it. Proof that when it is bitter, it can still be bitter without any shame. I choose the last one. I hold on to it. I examine its spots—its unwillingness to be perfect. I take small bites this time. Allow the sourness to flow. Let it stay. Let it criticize me. Then, I swallow. I close my eyes. Finally, I realize what I have been looking for my whole life. Not sugar. Not balance. Even not health. Just honesty. And this green plum from Kaohsiung that did not fight for itself—The one that was misunderstood, questioned, dismissed—Has selected me.