From Jones Upon a Time

The snow was gone and replaced with a bitter cold. I mean, we’re talking Canada-losing- Olympic-hockey-gold-to-Italy bitter. The lunar new year was almost here. Max wasn’t Asian. But he liked Chinese food a lot. Lunar new year was a good excuse to buy exotic ingredients and feel superior about knowing what chinkiang vinegar was used for. On his last trip to the world market, he bought 6 different soy sauces. None had any English on the label; it was all written in Chinese. (It was actually Korean, but he couldn’t tell the difference.)

When it came time to use soy sauce in his house, Max would regard the six choices thoughtfully, as if trying to select the correct wine to serve with the last chicken on earth. The fact was that they all tasted alike to him. But he’d still narrow his eyes at the inscrutable labels and pull at his face purposefully with his fingers.

Now he was steaming some dumplings. As the bamboo steamer heated up it smelled vaguely of a hotel sauna and the fogged up windows in the tiny kitchen gave him uncomfortable high school flashbacks.

It was the Year of the Ox. Max was born in the Year of the Dog and he would often make jokes about his age.

“Damn,” he’d say to anyone within earshot. "I feel so old. It’s because I was born in the Year of the Dog, you know.”

Invariably, the joke required explanation.