The Food Stories of a ‘Not Entirely’ Failed Corporate Drone

Spending weekends working at the office naturally meant more takeaways. I remember spending the weekend of my own birthday working overtime. Fortunately, the manager who asked me to work was decent and treated me to lunch at the office. My birthday wish that year was simply not to be calculating payroll on my birthday. Yet, that day, Excel froze and crashed several times—a true nightmare for anyone working overtime.

Sometimes, even when resting at home over the weekend, I was too exhausted to cook. Moreover, if I had a sudden whim to prepare a meal, I first had to buy aromatics like spring onions, ginger, garlic, and dried chillies—ingredients that are essential but impossible to use up in one go. By the time I felt like cooking again, these ingredients had long since gone off or shrivelled up. Once, some garlic sprouts I’d left in the fridge for nearly two months actually bloomed; I suppose that was an unexpected little joy. Consequently, the “correct” choice to avoid adding further hassle to my life was simply: don’t turn on the hob.

When work was hectic, I often brought my tasks home. Even when I didn’t have to work overtime, I only wanted to do something more relaxing the moment I stepped through the door. So, if I was eating at home in the evening, the first thing I would do upon entering the Tube was order a takeaway, so that it would arrive at my doorstep exactly when I did. But as I untied the bag and opened the container, seeing the food turned a dull, yellowish hue from being steamed in its own heat and smelling that hint of plastic mixed with the aroma of rice, I would instantly regret the order.

Watching television as a child, the immortals seemed perfectly content just by smelling the aroma of fragrant food. When my grandmother was alive, she used to tell my aunt that there was no need to visit her grave during festivals; if we simply splashed some of the sour and spicy soup used for our Shaanxi Saozi noodles at her doorstep, she would be satisfied. It shows that aroma is the soul of a meal, yet in the moment I faced this soul, I felt only disdain.

Of course, takeaways could be delicious—the salted duck from Nanjing Impressions, for instance, of which I could eat half a bird on my own. But most of the time the taste was mediocre, and I only picked at it because I had already paid for it. I couldn’t eat much, yet I wouldn’t put the leftovers in the fridge because I never knew if I’d actually be home to eat them the next day. In the end, more than half would just be thrown away.

This scene could be captured as a cinematic long take: the takeaway is brought from the doorstep to the table with a hint of anticipation and unpacked; I poke at the food a few times with my chopsticks; then, the plastic containers are sheepishly placed back into the bag. I tie the bag, carry it from the table back to the door, open it, and set it on the ground. Just as the delivery driver had left it, as if nothing had ever happened.

Did I feel bad about wasting food? I truly did. Was I hungry? I was. Was I unable to eat? I truly was. But it still had to be thrown away, and I would still order again next time. When the food is tasteless or poorly made, I feel a lingering dissatisfaction that ruins my mood—and how can one work overtime “happily” in such a state?

This continued for about a year until my health began to fail in various small ways. It was like a dilapidated house where you patch one wall only for another to crumble; there was always some new issue. I spent a lot of time at the hospital, though fortunately, there were few organic lesions. I realised I needed to adjust my work-life balance, but I still wanted to excel at my job. As my role shifted, the workload didn’t decrease; instead, the challenges grew.

But time is finite, and cooking every day was impossible, so I decided to heal myself mentally first. I began reading the books I’d always wanted to but never had time for during my Tube commute. In the rush hour, on trains where I had to wait for two carriages to pass before I could squeeze in, I finished books such as *Meditations on Beauty*, *Treasures of Ancient Greek Art*, *What to Eat Today? Let’s Look in the Garden*, and *A Gardener’s Year*.

The signal on the Tube isn’t great, so there was no need to constantly check my phone for urgent work messages. Thus, within the sanctuary created by my books, all the discomfort of the Tube vanished. For me, the crowded trains I once loathed became a world that offered a moment of peace.

Additionally, I started watching television programmes about agriculture and nature. I can’t remember how many times I watched *The Biggest Little Farm*; I longed for that life, yet found it hard to believe the stories were real. I couldn’t believe that the couple in the documentary were brave enough to abandon everything to reclaim wild land for the sake of their dog. I couldn’t believe they actually turned a barren plot of soil into a vibrant orchard. Consequently, I began learning about permaculture, bought *The Poetic Farm* to read, and, inspired by “Uncle Meng” from *Gardening World*, I started developing my own tiny balcony garden.

II. Breaking the Vicious Cycle

I gradually realised that the busier I was and the more often I relied on takeaways, the less appetite I had; it was a negative cycle. This continued until the end of 2019, when my father came to Shenzhen for a while and my life began to change. After countless invitations, I finally agreed to visit the nearby wet markets with him. To my surprise, after just one visit, I was hooked. Southern wet markets are like vast oil paintings, bursting with colour and vitality! The vegetables, meat, and people gathered together felt like a work in the style of Chen Liu—vivid and full of life. Greens of every shade—from ink-green and deep green to yellow-green and pale yellow—were arranged in neat, high piles surrounding the farmers. Watching the butcher carve the meat was like watching a Quentin Tarantino film; it had a certain cinematic quality of “violent aesthetics”. Strangely, when the meat isn’t confined to plastic supermarket trays, it feels so fresh and meaningful.

Before my father returned to Xi’an, he stocked my freezer with wrapped dumplings, hand-rolled noodles, fried *saozi* seasoning, fresh tomatoes, and blanched cowpeas. This way, even if I had no time to shop, I’d have a proper meal waiting for me after work.

But soon, these quick vegetarian dishes failed to satisfy my craving for meat. So, I dusted off Jiang Xianzhu’s *The True Taste of Home Cooking* series to sate my appetite. Yes, that’s the kind of bookworm I am; when faced with a real-life problem, my first instinct is to look for the answer in a book. When I first bought the book, I loved the memories and stories about food, but I never expected to find a recipe for stir-fried pork ribs in there! I was also deeply influenced by an essay titled “Tofu” from Wang Zengqi’s *Tastes of the Human World*. He wrote about various soy products, particularly tofu—the ultimate earthly delicacy—noting its incredible versatility: it can be light or bold, lightly stir-fried or slow-simmered.

Once, while visiting my aunt, I discovered that the poached choy sum and chicken soup my grandmother made were both delicious and simple to prepare. The method is straightforward: put the chicken in a pot of cold water, bring it to a boil over high heat, then lower the heat once the scum rises. Skim off the foam, add ginger slices, fresh abalone or soaked dried scallops and porcini mushrooms, and simmer slowly for 40 minutes. Once done, pour the chicken soup over noodles and greens cooked in another pot, add a pinch of salt or soy sauce, and you have a fragrant bowl of chicken soup noodles.

In my experience, the chicken breast cooked that day tastes best in the noodles, or served with a simple dipping sauce. As for the bony parts, I divide them into small freezer bags. I also portion the leftover chicken soup into small glass containers and freeze them. This way, if I can manage to eat at home on a weekday evening, I can whip up a bowl of chicken soup noodles in no time, meaning no more relying on takeaways.

But after eating chicken for a while, a new health issue emerged: chest pain. At first, I thought it was something else, but I happened to notice that the pain eased if I stopped eating chicken for a few days. I was quite startled by this discovery. Just like that, the convenient, comforting recipe I had come to rely on was gone. I began researching other simple dishes I could eat regularly, such as pan-seared steak.

At the time, I also bought a Bear electric steamer. Before bed, I’d take frozen buns and eggs from the fridge and set the timer; the eggs would boil below while the buns steamed above, giving me a decent breakfast. Later, inspired by a friend, I started using the pot for steamed seafood. The advantage is that you can cook and eat simultaneously, without any oily fumes. On weekends, I’d boil plain congee in the bottom and steam a pot of clams, then prawns, and finally some crown daisy. After the seafood, sipping the congee with tender crown daisy was an absolute delight—it felt like living the life of an immortal.

Oh, I also got a crested gecko named Wuwei (Tailless), so the first thing I do when I get home is feed him and mist his tank. On weekends, I tend to my plants. My daily chores at home have increased significantly, yet strangely, the feeling of being “busy” has diminished, replaced by a sense of fulfilment. Of course, there were a few times I forgot to feed Wuwei and crashed as soon as I got home. I’d wake up in the middle of the night, suddenly remembering he hadn’t eaten, and feeling terribly guilty, I’d bolt out of bed to feed the little guy.

I’m still very busy every day, but I always make a point of checking on my flowers first—touching them, watering them, and picking off the red spider mites. It was through growing roses that I realised how fermented microbial solutions can regulate soil health and how vital good soil is for a plant’s growth. When spring arrived, following the lead of *What to Eat Today: A Look in the Garden*, I bought green plums to make plum wine and salted plums with perilla. At the time, I wanted to emulate the story in the book: the idea that one day, in the future, I could eat perilla-salted plums I had preserved 30 years prior. From where I stand now, it seems achievable.

III. Learning to be Kind to Myself

Yet, these small changes and simple pleasures in my daily life ultimately could not alter the nature of my work or my state of mind. My health continued to decline; my eyes were constantly red and itchy, and my ears became inflamed. I visited the ENT department at the hospital and took anti-inflammatories, but the condition kept recurring. It wasn’t until I went to Spain that I discovered it was all caused by rhinitis. On the day I finally decided to resign, I began to gasp for air the moment I arrived at the office. As I struggled more and more to breathe, my colleague panicked and rushed me to a nearby hospital. The doctor asked if the two of us were a couple who had been having a row, leaving my kind-hearted male colleague looking utterly bewildered. After a battery of tests, including a 24-hour ambulatory ECG, everything came back normal. However, for some time afterwards, whenever I saw a typical CBD office block or a high-rise apartment, I would feel dizzy and nauseous.

After quitting, I truly stopped ordering takeaways. I had grown tired of restaurant food, especially since my farewell meals with friends were almost all eaten out. The most memorable was my farewell to my tea art teacher. Ms Zhou was very thoughtful; knowing I had lost all interest in eating out, she specially prepared several home-cooked dishes to bring to the tea house. I remember the menu that day: winter melon and barley pork rib soup, steamed pork ribs with garlic, and Dai-style sweet and sour cold eggplant.

Because meat and strong scents are forbidden inside the tea house as they disrupt the essence of the tea, the two of us sat at a table outside. As we ate, she urged me, explaining that these dishes were easy to make and very healthy, and that I should cook them for myself more often. Upon our parting, she gave me a porcelain teapot decorated with a chicken-cup motif. She told me that as my teacher, she treated me with maternal kindness, and thus chose porcelain as my gift. Moreover, porcelain does not absorb odours, making it convenient for me to use elsewhere; I could brew any tea I liked, as long as I washed it clean afterwards.

This is the eating journey of an ‘incompletely failed’ office worker. In the days gone by, I have learned certain professional skills, and I have learned the value of hard work and perseverance; at the same time, I have learned how to be kind to myself and how to let go. I define it as ‘incomplete’ because my life is still continuing. I hope that the soil of my life will bloom with flowers like the persimmon blossom—unobtrusive yet beautiful—and that this experience of mine allows those flowers to emanate a unique top note.

Foodthink Author

Miantuan Jingjing

A learner aspiring to become a soil health technician.

 

 

 

Eat Something Good

In the first two instalments of the “Eat Something Good” column, Foodthink invited readers to share “moments when you didn’t want a takeaway” and their best tips for “what to eat instead of takeaways”. This article was expanded from a response by one of our readers, Miantuan Jingjing. We were moved by the sincerity and depth of her answer; she viewed the choice of whether or not to eat takeaway through the lens of her work and life circumstances, rather than as a simple dietary preference. This is an experience shared by many urban workers. Therefore, we hoped she could tell her story in full. For the next edition of “Eat Something Good”, Foodthink is seeking readers’ vents regarding the over-packaging of food. Do you also feel uneasy about the smell of plastic clinging to your takeaway meals? Are you concerned about the vast amount of single-use plastic waste generated? Are all those layers of plastic wrapping and disposable cutlery truly necessary? Beyond takeaways, in what other areas of life have you encountered excessive plastic packaging? Do you have any good ideas for reducing plastic waste? We welcome you to leave a comment and share your experiences.

Photos by the author

Editor: Yuyang