Literally and figuratively. Starting a new week with a new candle (currently burning Boy Smells Cinderose, which I bought over a year ago at the Guggenheim gift shop). Gorgeous packaging that houses an equally gorgeous product. Glossier’s hand cream does not disappoint. Making coffee at home, a new and sacred morning ritual. Defrosting vegetable soup, made with love by my mother. Spiced with the same chili oil I’ve added to homemade broths for nearly two decades. Heating up Dad’s own recipe for a spicy, Dougan sauce—perfect for topping over noodles. Even just writing this has me overwhelmed with love and gratitude for my parents. How did I not appreciate them more in my youth? How could I have been so resistant to publicly acknowledging appreciation and love for the very foods I grew up with? That my body prefers, that I’ve developed (or inherited) a palate for? Shows like Netflix’s Hollywood that mean something, and say something worthwhile, too. Texts from my 姑姑 (gūgu, which means “aunt” in Chinese), my Dad’s cousin with who I lost contact for 11 years until early this year when I met up with her while she was in the city for a work trip. She…