Task 4 Question 3: Your Taste Memory Writing Exercise by Jenna Lee

2025-09-30 20:07:29 UTC

Every Spring Festival of my childhood, the journey back to my grandmother’s house filled me with excitement. I knew the kitchen would soon be alive with warmth and laughter, carrying the aroma of freshly cooked dishes. Most of all, I longed for the family ritual of making dumplings together.
The adults handled the most complex tasks: chopping meat and vegetables for the filling—corn, chives, cabbage, shiitake mushrooms, all the family favorites—and kneading the dough until it was smooth. My grandmother rolled out perfect round dumpling skins with ease, while my mother mixed the fragrant stuffing. We children insisted on helping, flattening the dough clumsily with ragged edges and giggling at our crooked creations. Soon, my cousins and I divided the work, carefully wrapping dumplings of different flavors, determined to keep pace with the grown-ups.
At last, the dumplings were cooked, filling large round plates that completely covered the dining table. Everyone reached eagerly for their share. I bit into one, the thin skin bursting open to release steaming, savory juice. Some preferred dipping dumplings in soy sauce, others in vinegar, but no matter the choice, they always tasted wonderful, because they were the result of our shared effort. Surrounded by relatives, we ate until our bellies were full, the air thick with chatter, steam, and joy.
Looking back, those dumplings were more than just food. They carried the sweetness of teamwork, the warmth of generations gathered together, and the joy of reunion. Even today, whenever I eat dumplings, I taste childhood itself—the laughter of cousins, the patient voices of my grandmother and mother, and the spirit of family unity that made every Spring Festival unforgettable.

LIU Xinyi Caroline

2025-10-05 14:27:58 UTC

During my childhood, one of my most anticipated festivals was the Mid-Autumn Festival with abundant fruits, tasty dishes, and most temptingly, the mooncakes. Every year, we would receive a lot of mooncakes in various flavors. Those delicately packed mooncakes kept luring my cousins and me to try to sneak into the kitchen and pick them up before the permission of our parents. “That one would be mine! " "NO! I found it first, it should be mine!” Then, unfortunately, our theft was spotted.

After several days of expectation, we were finally allowed to enjoy this exquisite and festival-limited dessert. Displaying in variety of flavors, the dining room table was full of mooncakes dotted with seasonal fruits and nuts. All my family members also came from far and near for the reunion, and chatting and laughing suddenly filled every corner of the room.

Under the tender moonlight, we sat together sharing the mooncakes. My grandfather would be responsible for the first slice, then my parents would divide the mooncakes into pieces. Yunnan Ham, lotus paste with egg yolk, five kernels, sweetened bean paste, exposing their colorful stuffing with golden-like shells, and handed to my cousins and me. The elders elegantly tasted the mooncake and toasted to the gathering while kids like us vied to get the remaining mooncakes, still shrouded in the gentle moonlight.

Years later, my cousins and I became the grown-ups, and some of my family members have passed away. My cousins and I now live in different places and no longer have chances to appreciate the moon and share the mooncakes, but we still connect and remember to exchange our holiday greetings through the internet. After all, we are shrouded by the same moonlight.

Wang Shuhan Tess

2025-10-05 16:43:10 UTC

When I was a child, a street cart selling grilled cold noodles—our so‑called “unhealthy food,” strictly forbidden—stood right outside our home. Each time I passed, my steps shrank to a shuffle, as if slowing my body could let every cell steep in that mouth‑watering air.

After weeks of anticipation, my mother finally allowed me a taste of this “divine food.” I floated beside her, unable to tame my saliva, as she led me to the cart. The vendor’s hands moved skillfully: The booth holder fired the chilled noodles and coat it with egg liquid. That’s the moment when the fresh egg fragrance striking the nose. Then onion and hams were added in sequence.The food feast reached its climax when the cold noodles were slathered with spicy sauce.

While I watched, the vendor folded the noodle sheet into neat layers and slid it onto a paper tray, cutting it into bite‑size squares that steamed in the cool air. I picked up a piece and bit in: the surface lightly charred and springy, the egg tender, scallions sweet‑green, the ham savory. The sauce bloomed across my tongue, then a gentle prickle of heat that made my lips hum. The sweetness of the sauce perfectly complements the combination of eggs and ham.

After the excited food journey, my mother smiled the quiet smile of a rule bent but not broken. Life did not often assemble such perfect seams, yet this was one: the experience of tasting the tasty food under the ordinary sky of my street. Years later, far from the Northeast China, I search and do not find it—the exact crackle of the griddle, the vinegar’s lift in the steam, the accent in the vendor’s call. A flavor you cannot pack in a suitcase, only carry in memory.

Lau Raco

RacoLau — 2025-10-07 12:38:12 UTC

When I was small, nothing excited me more than the sound of the bell from the ice cream man downstairs. Every summer afternoon, after school or extracurricular classes, my friends and I waited eagerly for that familiar melody from the blue-and-white van. The tune echoed through the estate courtyard, and just hearing it made the humid air feel a little sweeter. We would rush to beg our mum for ten dollars, praying he wouldn’t drive away before we got there.

We sprinted downstairs, coins clutched tightly in our sweaty palms. The uncle inside the van wore a white cap and moved with practiced ease, scooping soft ice cream into those classic crispy cones. The smell of condensed milk and the faint metallic scent from the ice cream machine mixed with the hot concrete air of the street, a smell that only exists in a Hong Kong summer. We waited patiently, watching the creamy swirl rise higher and higher.

The first lick was pure heaven, cold and milky, melting instantly on my tongue. The cone was crunchy and slightly salty, balancing the rich sweetness perfectly. The ice cream melted too fast under the fierce sun, dripping onto my fingers, but I didn’t care. My sister and I laughed as we tried to finish before it disappeared into sticky puddles. For those few minutes, nothing else mattered.

Now, every time I hear that melody, even though the vans are rare these days, I feel a wave of warmth and nostalgia. It reminds me of a simpler Hong Kong, when happiness cost ten dollars and came in the form of a soft-serve cone. That ice cream was more than just a summer treat; it was a small, golden piece of childhood that still lingers in my memory.