As you've figured out, dear reader, there's been a bit of sadness prevailing over my mood for the last few weeks, which is why this morning offered me an extraordinary symbol of hope.
To understand, I must begin with an oblique explanation: I am an unrepentant Californian. As such, I have evolved dietary preferences for which I employ terms that sound vaguely religious.
Are you a believer?
I'm a lapsed pescatarian.
These food preferences came about slowly and (I wince as I type the word) organically. They were not cultivated on the commune I was raised on, nor were they the standard fare my parents served during my #vanlife upbringing.
Soy milk is a prime example of how exposure to another culture affected my diet. I was one of two exchange students at Peking Union Medical College in Beijing for a couple of months during my fourth year of medical school.
My fellow exchange student was a sweet guy who had family origins in Macao, and he invited me to stay with his grandmother in Hong Kong for a few days before we headed to mainland China.
Hong Kong has a tropical climate, meaning that our days there reached Florida retiree levels hot and humid. Walking the streets on our way to Kowloon Park one day, my friend stopped at a street kiosk and purchased a couple of small drink boxes.
I couldn't read the characters on the side, but taking a large swig, I was refreshed by ice cold milk with a hint of vanilla. When my friend informed me that 1) this was soy milk, 2) it was made of beans, and 3) in spite of its humble origins it would result in a paradoxical reduction of flatulence, I was won over.
On my return to San Francisco, where I was a med student, friends assumed I had adopted soy milk as a health kick.
The deciding factor turned out to be convenience - I could buy a crate of the stuff at Costco and it would last me several months. Since cereal and ramen accounted for disproportionate meals during my student years, fewer trips to the market thanks to nonperishable soy milk constituted a small victory I was happy to claim.
I am the son of immigrant parents from Latin America and the Caribbean, and we were raised eating the food they grew up on. When I began to drink soy milk during visits to my parents, my father responded with such memorable quips as:
¿Eres bobo o te chupas el dedo? (Are you an idiot or have you been sucking your thumb?)
Dad's idea of a culinary adventure is dinner with bottomless breadsticks at the Olive Garden, so I stuck with my soy milk and we agreed to disagree.
Which brings us back to this morning. Chief among my epicurean pleasures is a daily breakfast bowl of blueberries, chia seed and muesli soaked overnight in soy milk.
It's a refreshing, filling start to the day, and when chased with a ritual espresso, it makes me feel like I'm living a John Denver song.
The chia seeds (same ones you've used on your novelty Chia Pet®) provide a satisfying burst between my teeth when I crunch them.
I awoke this morning, groggy after an ER shift, and headed to the sink to brush my teeth.
At the drain, in a splendid pool of sunlight, a slender green shoot from a resilient chia seed had sprouted.
At work, COVID is rampant and it seems that the world has spent the past year and a half beneath the specter of imminent death.
In the unlikeliest of places, a quotidian remnant of breakfast snaps me out of my funk to remind me that life always finds a way.