To the Black Chinese Herbal Soup,

It has been years but the sickening smell stemming from your deathly black coloration still haunts me. Even now at this very moment, your spirit still lingers. I have made the great mistake of deciding to write this letter right before dinner, and you’ll be no doubt proud to hear that I have lost my appetite. I hope you’re happy.

I suppose your entrance into my life wasn’t your fault. My mother has always obsessed over my small stature and can always be depended upon to bring home various Chinese medicinal cures to remedy my apparent inability to break 5 ft. 1. Unfortunately, one of those “magic” cures was you.

I remember the first time I saw you. It was a typical evening; I was upstairs studying and my mom was downstairs cooking. A rather odious smell was permeating the house and I strode down to the kitchen to investigate. My mom appeared to be in a good mood – too good a mood.

“What are you making?” I asked cautiously. She turned to me, a big hopeful smile on her face. “I made a special type of Chinese soup! It has these herbs that are supposed to help you grow taller.” I peered into the pot and was instantly revolted. There you were, arrogant and full to the brim – wallowing in an inky pool of black oil and ancient roots.

“There’s no way I’m drinking that.” I had scoffed. Luckily for you, my mom had has perfected the immigrant parents’ art of guilting. And before I knew it, I had been roped into drinking a full pot of you – every month, for the next half year.

You weren’t so bad the first few times. I could drink a few bowls every day as long as I pinched my nose the whole time. But as time went on, my method lost its magic and your grisly taste began to grate on my gag reflex.

“You’re just prolonging it– I will just add less water next time so you only have to drink two big bowls and then you’ll be done for the month!” my mom offered brightly. Not knowing any better, I agreed.

I bet you were just cackling the next time my mom cooked you up, because it wasn’t until she set down the steaming, cavernous bowl that I realized what a horrific mistake I had made. You were bolder and oilier than ever before. No matter how hard I pinched my nose, your abhorrent and bitter flavor pervaded my entire mouth, my entire being. You were unstoppable. The next few months were torturous. I tried everything to make the experience of drinking you more bearable. I would watch T.V or read, or take you outside on the patio hoping that the fresh air would appease my gag reflex - I even drank you with a colorful swirly straw, but nothing, absolutely nothing, worked.

I grew weaker as time went by, as just the faintest thought of you managed to induce nausea. It could take up to an hour for me to finish one bowl. One whole hour of you degrading and eating into my strength and willpower. Not only did you temporarily destroy my entire dining experience, you even managed to potentially corrupt my morals. There were times, desperate times, when I seriously considered pouring you down the drain. As I stared into your murky face of grease, images of my mom laboring over your lengthy and complicated recipe kept me in my seat. Meanwhile, you would sit there gloating and gleefully basking in the promise of traditional Eastern medicine.

I have written to you to tell you that although you broke me and caused me so much pain those six months, you did not defeat me. I completed my task, down to the very last drop, and I have emerged a stronger person with even stronger taste buds. When I fear I cannot finish a food or find it too gross to continue consuming, I think of you and find the willpower to forge onwards. And in case you were wondering, I didn’t even grow an inch.

Please do not reply.

Sincerely, Wendie

About the Author

Wendie is a consultant based in the Bay Area who enjoys writing and non-profit work in her spare time.