Suppose I were to begin by saying that I never fell in love with green. Suppose I were to describe the colour as my mother tongue instead; suppose I invited you into my experience of it.
I.
Hong Kong was not a city to me. It was our apartment building on Argyle Street with its forest green exterior, now painted over in a nondescript shade of beige. It was the jade donut on a red thread around the neck of my kindergarten crush. It was the looming hill of weathered concrete where Mimosa pudica grew between the graves. It was Sailor Jupiter. It was my favourite pencil crayon used to draw an imaginary landscape over and over again.
II.
Have you endured a setting sun? Mandy and I observed its descent for an hour before the island across the bay took precedence. Geography denied us a visible horizon, but I hoped for a green flash anyway. Perhaps hope is a cousin to patience: both sound more dignified than waiting around for something favourable to happen. The beach was full of cold pebbles and void of people for the same reason. Summer had not yet settled in. Seaweed looked like tufts of uranium glass strewn along the shoreline.
III.
The first trip we took together brought us to a restaurant inside a greenhouse. Unbridled joy coursed through my being: I did not expect fresh tomato soup in wintertime Iceland, or to drink a bowl of it next to vines upon vines of the ingredient. Most unforgettable was the scent—that sunny herbaceousness of tomato leaves, in high concentrations—saturating the humid air around us. I wanted to bottle it up, send it across an ocean. "Freely emeraldine," the cryptic message would say.
IV.
V.
Studying abroad was a goal of mine since high school. I needed to get out, to be somewhere similar to Canada but far removed from it at the same time. Reprise pointed me in the direction of Scandinavia, then the practical choice came down to situating east or west of the Öresund. Little Dragon and Esbjörn Svensson Trio nudged my decision toward the former.
In Skåne I discovered my preferred way of being in the world: one foot in front of the other, admiring the unfamiliar. An hour to class past the campus greenery though the bus only took ten minutes. To the lighthouse before dusk and through the nature reserve with Peter. As a counterpoint, whenever I felt homesick, I would take a stroll around IKEA Malmö because it felt exactly like the one back home. I dare say the illusion remains the closest thing we have to teleportation.
This penchant for wandering unearthed the seed of a truth within me: the path of my life going forward will follow no line or ladder. But how does one navigate an open field? And what if lose my bearings? I returned to my final year of undergrad with a sack full of questions in tow.
From "The Open Window":
Så mycket jag tyckte om, har det nån tyngd?
Dussintals dialekter av grönt.
So much that I loved, does it have any weight?
So many dialects of green.
VI.
"Honeydew" was the first time I ever saw a study abroad experience depicted on screen. In this fourth episode of The Bear's second season, Marcus arrives in Copenhagen on the cusp of spring to stage with a pastry chef. Despite being new to his role—green, as in lacking in training—Marcus demonstrates a propensity for growth. He quickly learns from Luca how to make shiso gelée, followed by a quenelle. During their early morning banter he mentions, with fondness, his past life on the football field before his mother fell ill. He waters the plants ahead of work.
Everything about Marcus is viridescent, including the title of his standalone episode. He is smitten with his craft by the end of it.
VII.
VIII.
Viridian is a blue-green pigment that mixes beautifully with other paints to create a versatile array of colours. On its own it resembles Lake Michigan lit by an overcast sky, but viridian is most appreciated for its relational quality, just as Marcus is defined by the things he holds dear: his mother, for the love she must have taught him, and donuts, for the delight they brought to his childhood.
His fixation with the latter came at the cost of professionalism amidst the kitchen chaos of season one's finale. Though inexcusable, it became obvious by season two that Marcus's tunnel vision mindset is a form of temporary shelter, both from the frenetic environment around him, and from the reality of his mother's disease overarching it. He is a lonely child inside a man's body, stuck in a mode of helplessness except when he creates. And so in the shadow of viridian's facade there exists a blue undertone suffused with melancholy. Says Ebra: "One bite of a donut bring us much joy. Two bites just bring us sadness."
From My Private Property:
Blue sadness is sweetest cut into strips with scissors and then into little pieces by a knife, it is the sadness of reverie and nostalgia: it may be, for example, the memory of a happiness that is now only a memory, it has receded into a niche that cannot be dusted for it is beyond your reach; distinct and dusty, blue sadness lies in your inability to dust it, it is as unreachable as the sky, it is a fact reflecting the sadness of all facts.
IX.
There are those who let sadness consume them, and those who express it through care.
When the easier choice is not to care—to be reckless, cruel, dismissive, or indifferent—the act of caring seems almost unreasonable. It necessitates gentleness and expects nothing in return, like leaving water out for a nonexistent cat. It is a higher register of attention. It is a child reaching for your hand in the dark in case you, the adult, are scared. A person who genuinely cares is compelled to do so out of instinct, never for glory. At the heart of their actions is the desire to be a soft landing whether they are conscious of it or not.
Marcus creates a savory cannoli in Carmy's honour and names it The Michael, finished with a drizzle of green. A simple gesture to say: "your sorrows are safe with me."
From Power of Gentleness: Meditations on the Risk of Living:
Gentleness is primarily an intelligence, one that carries life, that saves and enhances it. Because it demonstrates a relationship to the world that sublimates astonishment, possible violence, capture, and pure compliance out of fear, it may alter everything and every being. It is an understanding of the relationship with the other, and tenderness is the epitome of this relationship.
X.
Chef Takayasu and his elderly mother run a shokudo eatery renowned for their negiyaki which takes forty minutes to make. The whole process is wrapped inside a disproportionate amount of care and generosity: how else can it possibly be? Under no circumstances should a humble green onion pancake require that much time to prepare; only love can fuel such an endeavour.
Batter spread thin as a crepe forms the negiyaki's structural foundation. This base is topped with a few pieces of beef tendon under a heaping mound of freshly cut Kujo green onions (plus chikuwa slices, and red pickled ginger), then left undisturbed to cook on low heat for around twenty minutes so as to bring out the inherent sweetness of the ingredient.
Once the negiyaki's bottom-most layer reaches a moldable consistency, chef Takayasu carefully folds up the sides like a galette to keep the green onions tucked in. This makes the sizeable pancake much easier to flip over, which he does after another ten or so minutes. Next, he cracks an egg on the side, marbling it with his spatula as if mixing paints on a palette. The negiyaki is subsequently transferred onto the sheet of fried egg to cook together for several minutes longer.
When the dish is finally ready to serve, diners are asked whether a sweet or more savory sauce is preferred. Some of it is brushed directly onto the plate, and the rest goes onto the now egg-side up pancake. A dusting of aonori seaweed completes the long awaited masterpiece.
Chef Takayasu abides by an intuitive rhythm born out of kairos as a culinary philosophy. Impervious to the expectant energy of seated patrons or those waiting outside, he commits to each step with glacial focus and a gentle but deliberate hand. Pressure seems to have no place in his repertoire. On the contrary, the chef is deeply in tune with the present and often smiles to himself while cooking.
In those moments he looks just like his late father whose photo hangs high up on the far wall—a warm presence watching over us, his wife, and his son. Time spent in the kitchen must feel like being around him again. It all makes sense, in this light: every service is a family meal, every dish a reunion. Every second counts. Let it take as long as it needs to take.
Footnotes
i. I made a mixtape inspired by Marcus as a character, featuring music by Donny Hathaway, Melenik Wossenatchew, Mulatu Astatke, Arthur Verocai, Marvin Gaye, Gloria Jay, Sufjan Stevens, King Krule, Shintaro Sakamoto, and Khruangbin. Listen to it here.
ii. I also designed this poster while devouring my negiyaki leftovers.
iii. This piece of writing is an homage to Maggie Nelson's Bluets.
iv. Suggested film pairing: Perfect Days by Wim Wenders.
v. Screenshots that didn't make the cut:
