A few days before Chinese New Year, I eagerly picked up a long-awaited parcel in the Woodlawn mail room: a care package, the box tightly packed to the brim with heaps of snacks reminding me of home—sesame mochi, hawthorn leather candy, and sugar-glazed rice crackers. After I’d constantly complained over winter break about missing the food at home, my very lovely parents purchased some of my favorite snacks at our nearest Ranch 99 (a Chinese family’s go-to grocery store) and stuffed as many as possible into the cardboard box. Coming from the Bay Area, where the ample East Asian population invites an equally generous selection of Asian foods, I’ve developed a large appetite for these snacks. The package satiated my ever-increasing desire for a taste of home here in the Midwest—a region that, while possessing its own charms, does not offer the widest range of authentic Chinese foods.

Before coming to UChicago, I had never been that conscious of cultural food’s value in maintaining my identity. Whenever I occasionally ate out with my friends, we almost always opted for something I deemed new; whether it was Mexican, Italian, or Japanese, we would inevitably decide on non-Chinese cuisine. Throughout my first year at college, though, I found myself craving not only my parents’ dishes but any and every Chinese snack that I ever had growing up. I’ve grown nostalgic for the distinct flavors of my upbringing, even if I despised them as a child. Sour preserved plums, once hurriedly spat out when my grandma wasn’t looking, now shine like delicacies in my imagination.

In the absence of readily accessible options on campus—and in part due to my unwillingness to pay for Chinatown dim sum every week—searching for a taste of home has become a prominent piece of my life here. Late at night, I often find myself returning to the cardboard box, meticulously choosing from a variety of bite-size snacks to munch on as I work. My parents may not know it, but the small tastes of familiarity have become a lifeline amid the pizza-and-pasta–filled dining halls.

The package arrived just in time for Chinese New Year back in February, intended to provide me with a somewhat authentic holiday experience. This year was the first time I’ve spent Chinese New Year away from my family. Chinese New Year has always been a big deal in my household. My childhood is filled with memories of receiving red envelopes from relatives and watching the Chinese New Year Gala live on TV—complete with dancing groups of hundreds and silly two-person comedy skits. My most distinct image of Chinese New Year, however, is neither of a red envelope nor the colorful TV screen—instead, it’s my view sitting in front of our wooden dining table, surrounded by chattering family members, staring out at the expansive assortment of colorful and traditional Chinese dishes in front of me. Our dining table is always packed from end to end with anything from plump, hand-wrapped seafood dumplings to soft, steamed snow fish to steaming, hearty chicken soup. With almost every dish’s name containing wordplay—fish sounds like surplus, tofu sounds like shared happiness, cabbage sounds like many riches—the table represents an auspicious prediction for the new year. These communal Chinese New Year dinners have always been the highlight of my celebration—and so food has emerged as an integral part of my cultural identity.

This year, there was no incredible spread of food. Instead, I spent the new year on my dorm room floor with a few friends, learning to play mahjong with a friend’s mini tile set before heading down to the communal kitchen to cook an unconventional assortment of Chinese food from H Mart—frozen dumplings with vinegar and Indomie ramen with an egg, sunny side up—complete with my roommate’s Indian food from home. It was nothing like the Chinese New Years I’ve grown up with, but I can confidently say that it was just as delicious. Part of growing up, it seems, is figuring out how to ease into the new while keeping a little of the old—so while this year’s celebration was strikingly different, I wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s comforting to know that regardless of where I am, I’ll manage to find small tastes of home.

Among the busy rush of midterms, Sosc readings, and late nights out, I’m grateful I set aside some time to make this Chinese New Year feel special. Even miles away, the simple taste of sesame mochi or the scent of black vinegar will tether me to my family and cultural identity. If I ever get lost, a steaming plate of Chinese food will take me right back home.

Jessica Zang is a first-year in the College.