Wading through Singapore’s oppressive humidity, I spot an oasis: the corrugated steel roof and brightly-colored plastic tables and chairs of a hawker center. These bustling open-air markets represent the culinary diversity of Southeast Asia. As I pass vendors selling cool grass jelly and spicy laksa, I want to try everything.
But nothing compares to my favorite dish, Hainanese chicken rice. This Singaporean icon consists of flavorful rice topped with tender chicken. The chickens are fed specific diets and slow-cooked before being plunged into icy baths, while the rice is steamed with garlic and pandan leaves before being united with the chicken.
Chicken rice requires time, effort, and precision. As I’ve learned, so do many other things in life. I think of the Chinese aunties cooking in their hawker stalls when folding a complex origami ladybug, tackling AP courseloads, or building an intricate woodwork box. Those masters of chicken rice inspire me to craft, practice, and plan.
Yet food doesn’t have to be exotic—or even delicious—to be powerful. When I joined a local crew team in freshman year, I didn’t know anyone, and my boatmates had been rowing together for years. I initially felt shy but began to find comfort in a small ritual. After returning exhausted and soaking from practice, we’d trek upstairs to grab granola bars. Sitting in a circle on the boathouse floor or in the rocking, warmly-lit 1-train home, we’d unwrap our Nature Valley bars. It had seemed daunting to find my way into their well-established group, but food brought us together. By sharing this humble (and solidly mediocre) snack, we formed a community. By June, I was part of a second family.
I was happy with my teammates, on the crazy, raw streets of Manhattan, and at home in my yellow bedroom. But when I learned I’d be moving to London, I realized this perfect period was swiftly ending. I began to appreciate every syllable and second we shared. When I left, I was torn away from everything I knew and loved.
During my first weeks in London, I was desperately unhappy and barely left the house. I missed New York, so I resisted any prospect of change. While I’d learned to surmount my insecurities with my boatmates, it was hard to meet new people in London because I didn’t want to. Eventually, I came to understand that by constantly reminiscing, I was missing out on new opportunities. I needed to take advantage of the present—just like those last weeks of crew.
So when I was invited to visit Camden Market with new classmates, I found the strength to venture out into London. Fearing judgment, I put up a cool facade. But walking from stall to stall, I realized that others shared my love for food. As we debated the crucial qualities of the best fries, I felt accepted for my true self. At that moment, making friends became much less intimidating, and I began to face the present.
From then on, I wanted to explore London as if it were one massive hawker center. I began to consider it home, and with this newfound confidence, started inviting other new classmates to dinner. Over Taiwanese soup dumplings, I became the one reaching out. I now know that change is difficult, but it presents opportunities, and embracing the unknown is the best way to experience the world.
To me, food represents connection and community—that’s why it drives my interest in service. I’ve worked at pantries, soup kitchens, and food redistribution programs and dream of giving on a larger scale. I want to create a system that considers factors like production, supply chains, and weather to determine how to transport food to food-insecure populations. This undertaking would require the interdisciplinary nature of the liberal arts, critical thinking, and cultural awareness. After eating my way through Singapore, New York, and London, I’m hungry to step into my future.