When I was a kid, my mouth was always hot.
My parents forced me to eat spicy food that they ate with ease — Hunan and Szechuan dishes they ate their entire lives, from coating white rice with mapo tofu to mala sauce on everything. As soon as I turned 4, I was consistently exposed to some of the spiciest Chinese dishes on the planet.
I remember when my older brother laughed at me for my inability to handle spicy food — when I would run to the sink to drink water (which only made the burning sensation worse) or go hungry because I couldn’t handle the severity of the spice.
It was with extreme joy that, by the time I was 10, I mocked my mom, dad, and brother for their inability to handle spicy food. Despite all the chaos that happened at home, from unemployment to my parents’ divorce, what united our family was that I could always make them laugh.
And I consistently reminded them that they were soft, that the student had become the master.
Now, at 22, every time I have spicy food, snacks, or any dish that I ate at a young age, I’m reminded of home, even though I haven’t seen my parents in a very long time. I’m not saying that like it’s a good thing; home…
