Ingrid ZH | Fangruo’s Cereal — Writing, Food, Travel & Coaching

One night at the end of March, Kevin and I were driving to Toronto. We stopped in a small town on the border between Pennsylvania and New York.

When we eat out together, we have to be more careful in choosing restaurants. Kevin needs to check how many vegetarian options each place has. After going back and forth, we settled on a Chinese buffet.

When we got there, we realized Kevin only had three choices: plain rice, green beans, and kimchi.

The girl at the front desk spoke hesitant English. I asked her if she spoke Chinese and whether it would be possible to stir-fry a simple vegetable dish for us. She apologized immediately, saying they hadn’t taken good care of us. After a while, she brought over a plate of stir-fried greens, along with a plate of stir-fried clams.

A little later, the owner came over to chat with us.

I’ve driven this route many times before, passing through this town again and again. From far away, drivers can see the sign for the Zippo Museum on the highway. The owner told us that more than twenty years ago, the restaurant used to be packed. Zippo was doing well back then. Workers came in with muddy boots, leaving the black carpet muddy. Every night, he would carefully clean it with a carpet cleaner.

Perhaps because there aren’t many people in town who speak Chinese, he kept talking to us. He told us he owned three restaurants in town. He shared which gas stations were cheaper, and even talked about the differences between Black and white police officers.

He asked what I did for a living. I said I didn’t really do anything—I just liked to travel around.

“I was the same when I was young!” he said. “Loved wandering around, made a lot of bad friends. In the end I always paid the bill. Are you like that too?”

I smiled, said nothing, and nodded slightly, waiting for him to continue.

It was 8:30 p.m. The restaurant closed at nine. Two customers walked in.

“Are you serious? You’re coming in to eat now?” he joked with them.

“I’ve been here many years,” he told us, with a trace of pride. “They’re all regulars. Where else do you see a business owner joking around like this with customers?”

I wanted to stay and keep listening, but I still had three hours of driving ahead. I told him we had to leave. The owner handed us three fortune cookies. The girl at the front desk slipped me a packaged sesame ball.

Her eyes were bright as she said:

“These are snacks shipped from China—for you!”

I like giving people snacks too.

Once, when I was camping in Badlands National Park, the tents next to mine belonged to two Mexican families. That morning, the sunrise was a vivid red. They were making coffee in the back of their pickup truck. The wind lifted sand and volcanic dust into the air, along with powdered creamer swirling around us.

They handed me a cup of coffee. We talked about our travel plans.

I took out a bag of peach-flavored gummies from my car and gave it to them.

After leaving the Chinese restaurant and the small town, I drove into a fog thicker than anything I had ever seen. I kept my eyes wide open, afraid of crashing into the car ahead. We kept heading north, all the way to Toronto.

On previous trips to Toronto, I usually stayed with friends or at my office. This time, Kevin and I booked an Airbnb together. We stayed in a new area called Scarborough.

It was already very late when we arrived.

The next morning, the first thing I did was look for a good breakfast.

Near the Airbnb, there was a T&T Supermarket. Compared to H Mart in the U.S., it felt more aligned with Chinese tastes. And compared to 99 Ranch Market in California, it had a wider selection of vegetables and snacks.

Kevin and I went straight to the bakery and prepared foods section.

I was overwhelmed by the choices: Swiss rolls, mochi-wrapped cakes, char siu buns shaped like little pigs.

Earlier this year, when we went back to China, I didn’t feel this way. People there now tend to order groceries online, and supermarkets no longer have the same lively atmosphere I remember from ten years ago.

But here in Canada, I found that feeling again—the feeling of being a high school student, holding pocket money, choosing something delicious from a supermarket shelf.

The next day, after we returned from exploring, the host asked how we had slept. We started chatting

She had also moved from China many years ago.

She recommended nearby restaurants. I mentioned my excitement about visiting T&T that morning.

“Why are you so excited about T&T?” she laughed. “It’s not even that good. There are so many better bun shops around here.”

That night in late March, it began to drizzle in Toronto. Beside her was a beautiful white Labrador, rolling around on the ground.

“Jasper, don’t roll on the ground!” she said.

There’s a national park in western Canada called Jasper National Park. I asked if the dog was named after it.

“Yes,” she said. “My son-in-law always tells me that one day they’ll drive west and take Jasper to see Jasper National Park.”

We mentioned that the blanket was a bit too thick. A little while later, she came back with a lighter one. She was wearing a raincoat, holding the blanket in one hand and snacks in the other.

“Here, have some snacks. These are hard to find here.”

She handed me a box of egg rolls and some freeze-dried durian coated in white chocolate.

Freeze-dried durian is a popular snack. Once, when I visited a friend in California, her mother had just brought back a batch of snacks from China—there was freeze-dried durian among them. My friend stuffed a lot into my suitcase.

The host said good night.

That night, I found myself wondering:

Are snacks the smallest unit through which we pass along kindness?

If so, then this world is unbearably, wonderfully lovely.