Juan Chang

The man wearing a baseball cap approaches our front door. Far from the door he stops and lays the box on our lawn of mostly hot dirt. Intrigued, I pause beside the stairwell. Just visible beyond the window trim is the blur of a wagging tail; the man squats down among the parched blades and begins to gently stroke my dog’s head. The man’s expression remains hidden beneath his cap. He doesn’t notice me watching, standing not 15 feet away, gripping a bowl of some kind of snack I no longer remember, hiding behind a window darkly aglow.

Just before he drives away, the Amazon notification pops up: It’s a picture of the package, and my dog Ru beside it, grinning up at me, her glittering eyes like dark round mirrors. Package delivered safely.

In that moment, I sense I just lost something invaluable and immediately believe it to be the man’s face. But the longer I gaze at the photo, the more I begin to think otherwise: I can’t lose something I’d never properly seen. All I know is something had dropped into my bowl and replaced my snack while I watched that man—something immaterial yet both cool and warm and juicily nutritious. It’s gone now, no matter how thoroughly I attempt to recollect it. I don’t think it slipped through my fingers—I’m not fool enough for that—but the particular sensation I felt consuming it cannot be recalled. My life is a constant state of consumption—but the rich, inexplicably complex flavors from that moment rooted me to the spot; they filled not my stomach but my soul, with ingredients I can only theorize. I cannot remember another time this happened so fiercely; it’s inexplicably cleansing. It leaves me, for the first time in a long time, full.

I wonder how I look standing there, chewing, digesting. The thing dissolving inside of me spirals upwards into my head: It feels as if my eyes should glow. Time hangs suspended. Then, without warning, it crashes back into its normal rolling gait: The door opens; my dog jingles inside; the AC is still humming like a bug; outside, my Mom’s blooming Lantana and Hydrangea and Cosmos shiver, rebuffing a weak summer breeze.

I zip upstairs, throw myself at my desk and open my laptop just in time for the outpour. Words gush from my fingertips, and surely I’m grinning like a madwoman: Writing hasn’t been this easy in so long. But I can feel, already, the stuff inside me fading; it urges me on. When my fingers have exhumed every last drop, I simply sit there, heart beating a little faster than normal, refreshed.

I’m on the hunt for more. Just one taste and I’m addicted. I got lucky: That something plopped right into my hands. I can’t help but wonder: Are moments like that really so rare, or are we simply too distracted by other things to notice how common they are? Do they flicker at the edge of our vision, and only by bothering to turn, do we not just see, but taste, experience?

I need more. That this experience doesn’t come in one form is acutely frustrating: I find myself watching the world, hunting, waiting, hoping. I pause to watch a ballooning squadron of birds near Smith. I crane my neck to watch fiendish squirrels chase each other across the quad—and still that special food doesn’t plop into my hands. I ask: Why is it so hard? Is there something wrong with the world, or with me?

I know a rat who understands. “Ratatouille’s” Remy lives in a drab and dank commune with his fellow rats, feeding on nondescript lumps. Somehow, he gets his little rat hands on a cube of cheese and a single strawberry. As he nibbles on both, vivacious splurges of color dance around him; he enters a world of pure experience. It envelops him, then just as quickly, it is gone, leaving him needing more. And so begins his hunt: He chases the ghost of a chef, searching for food— food for the soul.

Where do I look? Who do I chase? Need I always chase—could I, as Remy does, eventually learn to create soul food?

Maybe. Until then, I hunt and gather.