The north of China has a lot of greasy food. The first three weeks I was here were basically hell on my stomach. In fact, even back in Europe I could barely stand too greasy or creamy foods, instantly feeling nauseated after the first bite. That being said, it’s not like there’s a large variety of choices here unless you want to push your budget up to the next level and only visit the luxurious foreign food restaurants. But I believe in adjusting to one’s environment and taking risks. So no, I’m not going to play safe, nor will I eat only the most mellow foods available. I paid the consequence though; three weeks of diarrhea tends to take a toll on one’s body. I lost around 4 kilos, which is hard to imagine with all the food I ate being so greasy!

Spicy (sometimes extremely so, to the point of being unhealthy - and I love spicy) food, street food, cheap food, pig feet, duck neck, lamb penis, chicken heart, I’ve tried it all (See also: Edibles Out of the Ordinary). Now I am on my sixth week and I seem to have a stable digestion again. I have conquered the Chinese food in a 3 week battle with practically zero casualties except for my dignity! But I must stay sharp and be wary of the 5 spiced enemy. The guy that got admitted to the hospital because of eating poisonous rat meat at a street stand a couple of days ago would agree, I’m sure (it was all over the news).

Now when traveling or living in a place different than what they believe to be their home country, people seem to do things out of the ordinary to remind themselves of their roots. Dutch people hanging clogs on their walls in Canada for example. At no point in the 20 years I have lived in the Netherlands have I seen clogs in the natural habitat of the average Dutch(wo)man. Yet the people I see during my travels seem to embrace the stereotypes. Often you can see whether a house belongs to a foreigner and to which country that person belongs. Now, I always thought this was silly and do not believe that I have exercised the same behaviour while traveling or living abroad, yet I caught myself doing something similar a couple of days ago: I made Dutch pancakes. Never mind that I was cooking for a friend of mine, it’s a minor transgression nonetheless.

Flour, horrible bacon, milk and eggs in hand I had everything I needed. As the smell of the sizzling fatty bacon filled the apartment I put the finishing touches to my batter. A mere couple of minutes later the result was finished and served on a plate. Yet, as I looked at my creation I couldn’t help but feel a sense of sadness and shame wash over me…

I had created…

The saddest pancake