I was born with a short tongue, an attached lingual frenulum that keeps me grounded, hindering my ability to move my tongue as much as detached lingual frenulum folk. The doctor said I inherited it from my dad. One might think that a short tongue would hinder my appetite. Even with a short tongue, my appetite for the world is unrestrained. I yearn to taste as I wish. Love as I wish. Reminiscence as I wish. 

Because who’s to say what I can or cannot do. So what? Maybe the doctor is right, and I’ll develop sleeping problems because of the frenulum. I’ll sleep restlessly with grace, as I toss and turn, dreaming about all the ways I feel genuine joy. 

Digest is a culmination of all those joyous dreams. It just so happens that joy, to me, is synonymous with macaron towers, Peking duck, and peanuts.

Back to my frenulum. My short tongue was an alarming sign to me—I am my father’s son. Something about being inherently attached or related to another person gave me dysphoria. It’s like a feeling of perpetual teenage angst, of unruly pessimism that bites back. 

When I was a baby, my dad fed me peanuts “bird-style.” Yes, it’s exactly what you’re thinking. He chewed up peanuts to a sludge and fed me the sludge, for baby Evan couldn’t crack open and chew his own peanuts. Every time he recounts feeding me bird-style, I tell him to stop talking—or I’d combust out of disgust. In retrospect, I get it. He fed me peanut sludge out of adoration, at least that’s what he thinks. 

No, I’m lying—I don’t get it, and I don’t think I ever will.

Lately, I’ve been digesting a lot of peanuts. Not because I miss my dad’s peanut sludge but in large part to the two big saggy bags of dried garlic peanuts I brought with me to New Haven. I got them at Boss Supermarket, a quaint Chinese grocery store on San Francisco’s Noriega & 31st. On the day of my flight to go back east, my mom urged me to buy some for “college snacking.” I drove us there to pick them up. To be transparent, the peanuts were a pain to pack; my cowboy boots and Doc Martens already made my luggage ten pounds overweight. But the two bags of garlic-flavored peanuts were non-negotiable. They would sustain me, providing a candle-lit familiarity to my homesick belly. 

This past summer, I perpetually snacked on Boss Supermarket garlic peanuts. Uncle Bobby gifted them to us whenever he’d visit Paupau (maternal grandma). Before I left for college, my mom gave me a spiel about her and Uncle Bobby’s shared affinity for peanuts, like how he updates her on all his new peanut finds. And how one time, they got a ninety-dollar parking ticket when they not-so-sneakily double-parked in front of a Chinese grocery store. The San Francisco meter maids are brutal, and they don’t go easy on anyone—not even for peanuts. I don’t remember which brand or flavor they hunted for, but I know that it was worth the ticket. 

Sometimes I question how my mom and Uncle Bobby came to love peanuts so much. Is that why I love peanuts? Is it epigenetics or the fault of a nutty irresistible aura? Maybe it’s something more simple like the satisfying crack of the shell, the fibrous texture that sometimes splinters my skin so well. Or the flaky exterior of the nut, shedding like gift wrap on Christmas morning. 

I have an inkling that it runs in the family. 

When I was six or seven, I remember Paupau feeding me garlic-flavored peanuts after I fell jump roping. She insisted that the healing powers of fasheng (peanuts) would mend my broken skin. She would calm me down, drying my tears with her wrinkled finger pads covered in peanut shell dust. The dust would stick to my damp skin, but I would endure the discomfort for just a short while. When she turned away, I would immediately wipe away at the skin she had just grazed, erasing the dust, her touch.

Illustration by Sophia Chmelar

I never wanted Paupau to see me wipe away her wet kisses or dusty fingers, but sometimes I just couldn’t help myself. To accept affection should be automatic, void of hesitation and flinching. I’d forgotten my manners. I wish I could savor the feel of peanut dust on my cheeks, to admire the powder, like real magic or Tinkerbell’s pixie dust. I wish that I could be dutiful and endure more discomfort, endure more care. Her care is so sparse in New Haven. I only see Paupau a few times a year, and she sometimes forgets when I come and go. I want her to remember how respectful I am,to remember how much I love her. 

When I come back to my dorm after back-to-back classes, I crack open peanut shells. Again and again and again. I feel my cheeks dampening and my skin healing right in front of my eyes—magic. There’s an image of a jump rope in front of me, in the same position as I remembered. Purple rope and black handles. Light as a petal yet vicious and ready to ignite. 

…

Today, I texted my mom, asking if she could ship garlic peanuts to the bookstore. I was missing them, and Hong Kong Market’s peanuts don’t have that same je ne sais quoi. 

“how are you doing? classes going well?”

“I’m doing ok it’s a little stressful but I’m doing good overall”

“Also is it possible to ship garlic peanuts to me

The one from the market we went to”

“ok, will get the garlic peanuts and send them to you”

Now I wait. In the meantime, I’ll try to endure.