A brief introduction

I’ve been thinking a lot about the strange little things that shape us — a hometown you barely remember, a meal that became a ritual, a place that holds a story you didn’t realise you were writing at the time. They’re the sorts of memories that feel like postcards you meant to send but never quite did: snapshots of who you were, who you’re becoming, and the moments in between.

So I’m starting a new series called Postcards I Meant To Send. Each piece will be a short, reflective essay — part memoir, part history, part cultural curiosity.

Nothing too grand. Nothing too tidy. Just:
Here’s something that shaped me. Here’s why it matters. And here’s something unexpectedly fascinating tucked inside it.

I’ll eventually turn them into short podcast episodes, but the essays come first. Writing them helps me understand the memory; sharing them helps me understand why it stayed.

Before I dive in, I’d love to know what you think:

Would you like these “postcards” to be part of this newsletter — mixed in with English teaching, inquiry learning, and education talk — or would you prefer them as a separate publication so you can choose what you read?

Your thoughts genuinely help, and your presence here means a lot — thank you.

Series Introduction
This is a small catalogue of the places, tastes, and quiet moments that shaped me. Not a guidebook, not a travel diary, not anthropology — just the things that lodged themselves somewhere between memory and meaning. Each essay tries to follow a simple rhythm: here’s something from my life, here’s why it matters, here’s a story that grew around it, and here’s something curious you might not know. Think of these as postcards written years after the journey ended — the ink a little smudged, the details softened, but the feeling still warm.

HOTPOT

The first time I had hotpot with my wife wasn’t in Chengdu, the undisputed capital of spice, swagger, and Sichuan peppercorn bravado. It was in Zhejiang province, of all places — land of mild broths, fresh seafood, and people who believe your mouth shouldn’t go numb during a meal. My wife told me several times, with the authority of someone who grew up in the Southwest, “This isn’t Sichuan hotpot.” As if I might accidentally confuse the two and embarrass her in public.

This particular restaurant was an all-you-can-eat buffet tucked between two equally unremarkable shops. A conveyor belt of seafood drifted past us like a slow-moving parade: prawns, clams, scallops, crabs — each one waiting for its brief finale in the bubbling pot. It cost under 50 yuan per person.1 I remember thinking there must be a catch, because nothing that fresh has the right to be that cheap. The catch, it turned out, was my own inexperience.

In those early days, I treated the pot as if it were a polite British soup. I dunked things cautiously. I checked if they were cooked. I followed the rules. My wife, meanwhile, moved with the confidence of someone who knew the choreography by heart: swirl, scoop, dunk, wait, rescue. She looked like she’d been hotpotting professionally for years.

I liked to believe this was the first time she realised she might need to teach me many things: how to eat properly, how to use chopsticks correctly, how to stop asking the waitress if the prawns were “definitely safe to eat,” and — eventually — how to become a decent husband.

But everything changed when we moved to Chengdu.

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Chengdu: Where Hotpot Levels You Up

If Zhejiang was the gentle introduction, Chengdu was the full immersion — the kind where the water is already boiling before you realise you’ve stepped in.

Chengdu hotpot is not simply a meal. It is a challenge. A test of courage. A rite of passage. The broth is a swirling cauldron of red oil, crushed garlic, bean paste, and Sichuan peppercorns designed to make your entire nervous system question its life choices.2

My wife, born and raised on that kind of fire, was delighted. I was… less delighted. I spent the first few months in Chengdu sweating through my shirt, pretending that my tongue wasn’t going numb, and assuring everyone at the table, “This is great, honestly,” while secretly praying my stomach wouldn’t stage a protest later.

But something changed after a while. I learned that Sichuan peppercorns don’t merely burn — they buzz. They create a soft electric hum that lingers on your lips. I learned that dipping raw beef into a boiling vat of red oil feels like an act of bravery. I learned the art of finding the perfect balance in the dipping sauce: sesame paste, coriander, garlic, spring onions, a splash of vinegar, and enough oil to offend my former self.

And I learned that the joy of hotpot isn’t really the pot itself — it’s the community built around it.

Hotpot tables are round on purpose. They force conversation. They slow you down. You share food, stories, and occasionally, gastrointestinal consequences. You learn to fight for the last slice of beef. You learn that every friend has a different opinion on the correct level of spice. You learn that hotpot is the great equaliser: everyone leaves smelling faintly of chilli and triumph.

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A Taste That Became Home

After a few years in Chengdu, hotpot became one of our constants — a weekend treat, a way of welcoming visitors, a celebration meal, a comfort ritual after a long week.

And somewhere along the way, I stopped being the cautious vegetable-dunker and became someone who could navigate the chaotic pot without hesitation. I could identify tripe by sight. I could judge exactly when potato slices reached peak tenderness. I stopped sweating profusely (most of the time). I stopped asking if the prawns were safe.

In Chengdu, hotpot was no longer something I did — it was something I belonged to.

It became part of my marriage, my friendships, my understanding of what it means to share a life in a new place. It’s funny how food does that — how a boiling pot of oil and chillies can become a symbol of belonging. But it did.

A Few Things You Might Not Know

Hotpot has a longer history than I expected. The earliest form is believed to date back over 1,700 years, when soldiers cooked meat in helmets filled with broth over campfires.3
In Sichuan, the modern style emerged on the docks of the Yangtze River, where labourers cooked leftover cuts of animal offal in spicy broth to mask the strong flavours.4 Over time, it became mainstream, then iconic, then the universal answer to the question, “What shall we eat tonight?”

There are regional variations everywhere in China — from the mild mushroom broths of Yunnan to the buttery, beef-tallow soups of Chongqing. And yes, many locals will tell you that Chongqing hotpot is the real deal, not Chengdu hotpot — a rivalry I wisely chose not to take sides in, given that I still value my life.

And here’s a small fact I love: the phrase “ma la” (麻辣), meaning “numb and spicy,” is so deeply tied to Sichuan identity that scholars say it represents not just a flavour, but an entire worldview — one that embraces contrast, surprise, and resilience.5

Which, in a strange way, describes my Chengdu years perfectly.

Why It Still Matters

Now that I live far from China, hotpot has become something else entirely: a portal. The smell alone pulls me backwards — to late-night meals with friends, to New Year gatherings, to birthdays, to rainy Chengdu evenings, to quiet conversations with my wife over a pot of bubbling red oil.

Hotpot is messy, dramatic, and occasionally painful. But it’s also generous. Social. Comforting. It taught me more about community than many books ever did.

It shaped who I became.
It shaped who we became.
And it reminds me that the most meaningful moments often happen around a table — preferably a round one, preferably loud, preferably filled with steam and laughter and the constant clatter of chopsticks fishing for something good.

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Footnotes