Avery Wong

Sweet and Sour

By: Avery Wong

I don’t come in colors that match.

I come in steam and broth,

gold-slicked oil, vinegar bite,

and the sweetness that waits beneath the heat.

A teaspoon of -

translucent ivory vinegar

melts into the bubbling pot,

then reappears. Sharp,

Punctuating the air, like the moment

I pretended not to know my name.

Half a cup of ginger -

warm amber-brown,

earthy and rooted.

Like helping 妈妈1 in the kitchen,

its knobby shape echoing

the wooden spoon I clutched,

awkward fingers folding dumpling skins

with the patience of memory.

One cup of fire-engine red tomatoes,

the color of pride

as I slipped into my 旗袍2 for picture day,

and the color my cheeks burned

when I saw what everyone else wore.

The texture of that day:

soft,

ripe,

bursting too easily,

attention I never asked for.

Three-fourths of a cup of pineapple -

radiant yellow,

a ray of unfiltered joy.

The kind that lingers

like late-night laughter with my cousin,

our languages switching mid-sentence,

our joy sticky-sweet

and undeniably ours.

Egg ribbons swirl last—

milky white with threads of gold.

They never settle,

never take one shape.

Like the question:

“Where are you really from?”

Cloudy. Soft. Still rising.

So taste carefully.

I am sweet and sour soup.

Not neat, not mild.

I sting. I soothe.

I simmer with stories no recipe could hold.

1 妈妈 means “mom” or “mother” in Chinese

2 旗袍 is a traditional Chinese dress