Saturday Baos
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I’ve been spending my Saturday mornings at the bakery. Recognizable by its bright orange awning, Good Mong Kok Bakery is a no-frills Cantonese mom & pop shop. Inside, bao-filled steamers stack high. Large pots of congee sit discretely along the back wall. Trays of egg tarts cool by the window, luring in even those with the strongest of wills. Like members of a conductorless orchestra, bakers take bilingual orders, swap out empty trays, and roll in crates of produce with ease. They only speak using terse gestures and one-liners, but over time, these exchanges grow familiar. There are no glittery cupcakes, Instagram traps, or sterile white tables. It’s just you, the bakers, and the baos—simple, and, that’s exactly how I’d describe my days lately.
I still remember the stress of deciding to stay put rather than fly back to New Jersey with my parents. My family and I had agreed to give it two weeks and monitor the situation. Meanwhile, everyone else seemed to be fleeing from their cities in droves. Some returned to their parents’ delicious home cooking and others to their significant other’s company, and suddenly the weight of indefinite solitude sunk in. Two weeks turned into three, three into six, and now I’ve lost track. Gratefully, the whole family is still well (and roasting me in Pictionary).
As far as solitude goes, it has been a blessing and a curse. Some days, I would succumb to the random urge to leap onto my couch and roll around like a labrador with an itch they can’t scratch. After, I would just lay there, staring at the ceiling until either I started levitating or my Outlook fired another work notification—whichever came first. Other days, I would sit on my living room floor with my back against the couch just because the carpet hit different. But then, I would listen to the soundtrack of my neighborhood—a mix of birds chirping, car doors slamming, and neighbors blasting Spanish music. I suddenly didn’t seem to mind, though. What once were annoyances became reminders of something familiar.
Otherwise, solitude has been restful. When I first told my friends I had been living alone, I got a lot of “you must be so lonely” or “oh, I could never do that”, and while the concerns are appreciated, they remind me how we often overlook the benefits of simple living and solitude—too quick to equate being alone with being lonely. Another misconception is that our capacity for solitude is dependent on our introversion.
Instead, research points to a personality characteristic known as “dispositional autonomy”, which is essentially one’s capacity to regulate daily experiences at will. So, whether you are a closeted introvert or diehard extrovert, we can all free ourselves from the chains of this oversimplified spectrum. With that said, it’s important to recognize that it’s never a good idea to stay in solitude when it’s no longer beneficial. It always boils down to balance. But for those who actively avoid being alone, solitude may just be a blessing in disguise.
I could blame quarantine for a lot of things, but I would rather thank it for replacing the excess with the simple—taking walks, calling loved ones, reading books, playing music, and singing and dancing around the house like nobody’s watching because, for once, nobody is. It’s been an exercise in romanticizing even the smallest parts of my days—turning my Saturday bakery runs into puzzles where I solve for the ultimate ratio of sweet to savory or semblances of home that remind me of my childhood as much as they do lunchtime. And with each bite I take out of a bao, I am reminded that sometimes the simple life can be the good life.
