Prologue: The Return of the Frozen Saviour

It happens again— That sound. The dull, merciless thud of a frozen parcel hitting my doorstep. I recognize it before I even see it.: The unmistakable sound of hope, trauma, and sodium —arriving express from Fish Home, Taiwan.

Last time, they sent me salvation in the form of salted eel: A fish so good it rewired my depression and my taste buds at the same time. This time, the package reads, “Fish Home Taiwan’s Chinese Herbal Eel Soup Individual Meal Pack.” Medicinal Bass and Eel Personal Meal Pack. As I prepare to experience this new form of culinary salvation, I can’t help but feel a surge of anticipation and hope, tinged with a hint of nervousness about what this new experience might bring.

As if it knows I am alone. As if the fish is winking at me like, “Yeah, girl, we know it’s been over 10 years since your last romantic encounter. Here’s something warm to hold onto.” I sigh. The universe sends people signs. I get seafood.

Act I: The Resurrection of the Fridge Witch

I drag the frozen packet out of the box, like I’m pulling Excalibur from a block of ice. Frost clings to its plastic like glitter on a stripper’s thigh—refusing to let go.

Inside: water, bass, eel, a choir of Chinese herbs whose names sound like a prescription from my ancestors—Astragalus, Angelica sinensis, wolfberry, red dates (jujubes), Codonopsis pilosula, Ligusticum chuanxiong, and Eucommia ulmoides. These herbs, deeply rooted in Chinese traditional medicine, are believed to have various health benefits. Every ingredient whispers judgment in Mandarin Chinese: “”Ni Lianse Fabai! (“You look pale”)”; “Ni Qixu, (Your qi is weak)”; “Zenme hai Mei Jia! ?(How are you Still not married?)”

I roll my eyes. I don’t need another auntie intervention disguised as soup. But here I am, turning on the stove, defrosting like an emotionally constipated Elsa. The herbs start releasing their perfume—earthy, sweet, slightly medicinal—like a temple incense stick dipped in nostalgia and disappointment. Steam rises in soft tendrils. I stare into it like a crystal ball, hoping to see my future husband. No luck, just floating fish skin and my own reflection, looking way too emotionally involved with a saucepan.

Act II: The Smell of Sin and Salvation

The aroma thickens. It’s not overpowering, but a seductive scent of salted eel this time. This time, it is softer. It smells of healing, wisdom, and your grandmother’s hugs after a breakdown. I do a spoon in, lift it to my lips, and blow-steam kisses my face, warm and forgiving, like the universe saying, “Shh, it’s okay. You’re still a mess, but at least you’re hydrated.”

The first sip has a flavor that doesn’t slap but rather caresses; the first sip is earthy, sweet, and ends with a faint hint of salt. It’s like acupuncture for the soul, like the taste of regret after therapy. A symphony of flavour is dancing on my palate, each spoonful is a cozy voyage of taste and texture that envelops me in a cozy, familiar embrace.

Mother Nature’s gentle reprimand is whispering to me in the dish: “You’ve abused caffeine again, haven’t you?” I nod into the spoon, “Guilty as charged. Yes, I have.” With its calming qualities, the dish promotes a healthier lifestyle by acting as a counterbalance to the author’s caffeine intake.

Act III: Anatomy of a Broth

Each herb plays its role.

• Angelica Sinensis — the drama queen. She enters first, bold and fragrant, like that one aunt who always insists she knows what’s best for your uterus.
• Goji berries — the optimists, tiny orange orbs of delusion, floating around like, “We’re good for your eyesight!” Darling, I need you for my insight, not eyesight.
• Red dates (jujubes)— the sugarcoated therapist. They soften everything, making even bitterness sound like encouragement. “You’re aging gracefully,” they speak the ugly truth.
• Ligusticum — smells like ancient medicine and poor decisions. I assume it’s there to treat whatever spiritual parasite I picked up from dating apps.

Together, they simmer, whisper gossip to the bass and eel: “She used to be a party girl.” “She still wears eyeliner to boil water.” “She’s definitely projecting onto us again.” And I am. Completely.

Act IV: The Eel Returns

Then— There it is. That familiar slither of flesh. The eel. My old flame. We meet again. Last time, you seduced me with salt and sin, your skin crisp, your body buttery, you made me moan loud enough to startle the neighbourhood cat and make them think I have a sex life. But today, you are different. You’re humble now, bathed in herbs and patience, domesticated from your former self, and I pick you up with chopsticks, trembling like I’m touching a holy relic. You break apart instantly—soft, tender, like the inside of my emotional support pillow. The taste? Oh, holy mother of omega-3— It’s divine, rich yet clean, fatty yet disciplined, like a sensual monk who teaches yoga by day and sins by night. The bass joins in—a duet of textures: Firm, steady, dependable— the kind of fish you bring home to mom. The eel, meanwhile, is the one you text at 2 a.m. with a “You up?” energy. Together they create harmony: yin and yang, therapy and temptation, a culinary metaphor for all my bad dating decisions.

Act V: Flashbacks, Fever Dreams, and Fish Fetishism

Mid-bite, I begin time-travelling. Suddenly, I’m twenty-one again, working at that five-star hotel, plating foie gras for billionaires while eating boiled broccoli behind the kitchen door. I see her— that anorexic, skeletal version of me, chewing bitterness like it’s self-discipline. I want to grab her shoulders and scream, “Bitch, you could’ve been eating eel this whole time!” I laugh so hard I choke on a red date.

Tears stream down my face. Is it the heat? The nostalgia? The realization that I’ve replaced romance with reheated fish? Yes. All of it. The herbs keep bubbling, the smell thickens, filling my kitchen with the aroma of recovery, of laughter and resignation, of someone finally forgiving herself through dinner.

Act VI: The Soup of Confessions

Halfway through the bowl, I start confessing things out loud —to the soup, to the eel, to whatever deity supervises menopausal breakdowns. “I used to think happiness was a smaller waistline,” I whisper back. “But now it’s just warm broth that doesn’t judge me.” The eel doesn’t answer, but I swear its eyes glisten with compassion.

I keep talking. “I used to chase perfection,” I admit. “Now I am chasing expiration dates.” I realize I’m monologuing to the seafood again. But at this point, who cares if therapy is expensive when this soup is only NT$180?

Act VII: The Science of Feeling Alive

I feel my cells rehydrating like sad houseplants after a rainstorm as the broth seeps into my veins. My internal organs are practically thanking me:

• Liver: “At last, something other than coffee.”
• “I’m crying, bro,” said the stomach.
• Soul: “I might actually text my therapist back.”

There’s iron, collagen, qi, magic— whatever alchemy these herbs perform, it’s working. My hands stop shaking, my heart slows down, the anxiety voices in my head— the ones that sound like my ex and my mother having a duet—go silent for a moment. It’s bliss. It’s soup. It’s blissful soup.

Act VIII: Shameless Revelations

When I’m done, I tilt the bowl and drink the last drop straight from the edge. No spoon. No manners. No shame. If this is what rock bottom tastes like, then pour me another serving. I lick the rim. Yes, I lick it.

This is not an exaggeration. It’s a performance art piece called “Woman Returns to Animal.” The broth coats my lips, glossy, herbal, slightly oily—like lip balm for the emotionally unavailable. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, I look at the empty bowl, and whisper: “Call me.”

Because deep down, I know this isn’t just food. It’s a relationship. And, unlike every man I’ve dated, this one actually nourishes me.

Act IX: The Philosophy of Post-Fish Clarity

They say food heals. But this— this is philosophy disguised as soup. It teaches patience. The eel doesn’t rush. The herbs take their time. Everything softens when it’s ready— including me. It’s a slow reminder that I don’t need to punish myself to feel like I live up to Taiwan’s sickening beauty standards. I don’t need to starve to prove I control over my body.

Sometimes healing can look like slurping fish parts while ugly crying in the kitchen. And honestly? At least that’s progress.

Act X: The Aftertaste of Hope

I sit there for a while, soul humming, steam fading, until the last spoonful is gone. There is a subtle scent of herbs and redemption in the air. I feel warm in my stomach. A little less sarcastic, my heart. I feel alive. Not the romantic kind of alive, not the “Let’s start a YouTube channel and move to Norway” kind of alive, but the quiet, peaceful kind— like maybe I can handle tomorrow.

I think about my mother. She’d love this soup. She’d also remind me to pack my emotions and refrigerate them. But, she’s right. This—this is home. Fish Home, indeed.