There had to be a wedding in Taiwan, and I was to have a red dress. Though I was already married in October on a blue-sky autumn day in Baltimore, it was important to ritualize our union with Angus’s family, all of whom aside from his parents and him, still lived in and around Taipei. For me, and Angus too, the trip was less about our wedding and more about embracing the opportunity to eat our way through Taiwan, from the coastline to the mountains, through the city and into the country. We started our culinary journey at the hotel, in the morning after a fitful night of jet-lag induced sleep, when we were told we could choose from the second floor’s American breakfast buffet and the third floor’s authentic Chinese breakfast buffet.

How was that even a question? Third floor. Definitely.

I had never smelled such a combination of aromas as the elevator door opened to an expansive room overlooking the surrounding city. It smelled like dinnertime, not breakfast, and with my senses peaked and curious, I wandered up and down the length of the buffet. Colors I had never before experienced in the genre of food - pastel greens, vibrant reds, even something wiggly and translucent clear resembling jello. My favorite were the crisp on the outside, chewy on the inside, savory scallion pancakes. I gobbled them at every breakfast that week, finishing off the savory with a sweet portion of sesame-coated mochi.

Angus’s grandmother - his dad’s mother and the matriarch of the family - lived in Taipei with her caretaker. Ama insisted on cooking for us, and with minimal help from her caretaker, put out at least a dozen dishes of food onto a waxy wooden table minutes after we walked through the door. Outside, scooters buzzed down the busy streets, weaving through cars at a standstill. It was warm, the air carrying the electricity of a bustling metropolis and at same time a humidity that suggested the city’s proximity to the ocean.

One day, Angus and I sat in the back of a family friend’s little red car and bounced along back roads, winding up and down mountains to arrive into a blanket of fog at the coastline. There was a little shack next to the water, and as waves pounded nearby rocks and sent salty mist up in plumes, we entered the ramshackle building that revealed a modest restaurant. Several tanks of freshly caught swimming fish lined the walls, and we were immediately instructed to pick out our fish. I swear I saw it move on the plate after it was steamed and brought to our table just twenty minutes later. Poured over was a mixture of soy sauce, sesame oil, ginger, garlic and cilantro, and the fumes of the acrid sauce made my mouth water as it met with the warmth of the fish.

Up in the mountains, in a rural village, we walked by women stirring large pots of soup at roadside stands. We ate fried taro at picnic tables, our fingers coated with oil. One of the most memorable places we went on that day trip was up a narrow road to a mountain top to a single lane street, slick with a recent downpour, lined with vendors. The most magical moment standing and watching a man shave cream ice and deftly wrap it into a burrito with crushed peanuts and cilantro.

I did not know how I was to fit into the red dress at the end of this week, and yet, I didn’t care much. At the wedding, after a minimal ceremony and an obsessively rehearsed all-Mandarin speech from Angus, we sat down to a 12-course meal. As is tradition, the bride and groom must visit each table and take a shot of some kind of clear liquor, and we made our rounds. After a few slams of the scorching liquid, I stopped taking the shots and simply went with the cheers.

The day before we left to fly back home, we went to night market, which goes down as one of the best experiences of my life. In Taiwan, the night market is like a carnival that happens - every night. Not a drop of alcohol in sight makes for this the epitome of good, clean, sober fun. And the options for food are endless. We saw a line for pork buns that wrapped around the block, so naturally, we waited. When it was time to experience what the fuss was all about, and I had the pork bun in my grip, I bit into the hot, doughy outside into a rich and garlicky pork middle. The grease and juices from the meat that was trapped inside the bun ran down my hand, wrist, arm. It somehow made its way into my hair, even. I spent the rest of that evening smelling the remnants of heaven each time my hair wafted close to my nose. Also, it would be remiss not to mention that as soon as we ate the first bun, we got back in line for another.

When Angus and I married, his culture became my own. Though our current configuration is no longer a marriage, the practice of bending over a dish with sheer curiosity and intrigue, the folding of dumplings with our children, and sharing in traditions that hold a depth of meaning gives our family intention and purpose, even years beyond that red dress.