Tea Eggs Have Always Tasted Like Home
In the first weeks after my arrival in Taipei, I ate more of these eggs than I’d like to admit.
Game of Thrones
*Faux gagging noises*
KellyAngelalittle brotherbig sister
Karissa Chen's fiction and essays have appeared in numerous publications, including Gulf Coast, PEN America, Guernica, and Longreads. She was awarded a Fulbright Fellowship to Taiwan in 2015-16 and received a 2019 Fellowship from the New Jersey Council on the Arts, and is a proud Fellow of both Kundiman and VONA/Voices. She currently serves as the Editor-in-Chief at Hyphen and a Contributing Fiction Editor at Catapult. She is working on a novel.
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A place doesn’t begin to feel like a home until it contains people you care for.
I wish I had been warned—not because it would have changed my mind about the procedure, but because I might have been more prepared.
More in this series
We’d made a connection across tables, generations, tongues, our own tiny blip of transcendence. Holiness in the noodle bar.
The sixth sense, second sight, third eye. We are supposed to have both extra-accurate hearing and perfect pitch, more numerous and more acute taste buds, a finer touch, a bloodhound’s sense of smell.
In adolescence, weekend lunches meant fending for ourselves. On certain Saturdays, my sister and I ate wafu spaghetti together.