Growing up in Shanxi, China, I was most used to eating all kinds of food made of flour. Soup noodles, sweet millet baos, and many other things that are unique to my hometown.

When I moved to Beijing at 12, I was struck by the prevalence of rice in people's diets. Nothing gave me more comfort than a big bowl of hot, soupy, savory noodles. And in Beijing, I found rice lukewarm and dry.

But Beijing is an awkward copy of a cosmopolitan city. It opened me to more cuisines. I had my first Korean kimchi stew, first seafood pizza and marinara pasta at Pizza Hut.

But tasting different regional cuisines in China was my favorite. My friends in Beijing came from all over China, southern, northern, inland and coastal. We engaged in heated debates over whether tofu puddings should be sweet or savory, whether Sichuanese cuisine was only about the heat, and whether noodles were simply better than rice.

I was in love with the options Beijing provided, and I'd always have a list of restaurants that I most wanted to try, compiled according to the recommendations I saw.

I didn't have a restaurant list for four years.

For a while, the food blog posts I'd send to my mom were an imitation list during nights I remembered street corners, getting off the subway to meet a friend in Beijing, and my white sneakers hitting on concrete, in a sea of white sneakers and the occasional high heels.

My food hunt became 2am packages of the notoriously spicy chicken ramen with my college friend Carly, a 6 foot 2 Chinese girl I'd met at a debate camp before we came to the same college. When we walk together she'd often have to reply to others: "No I'm not a model. No, I don't play basketball. No, I don't know why I'm tall."

[sketch of me and carly over 2 bowls of ramen]

When I knew I'd come to New York for graduate school I was excited about the opportunities for food. Chinese was not the only cuisine I enjoyed, but not having been home for three years in my early 20s was an excuse for me to spend hours on the subway, seeking out Chinese food. And I loved Cantonese and Sichuanese food. Most of my Chinese friends in the U.S. do.

After all, nothing works better to quench one's thirst for Chinese food than some flavorful, spicy Sichuanese food that stirs one's body from head to toe and some warming, comforting congee and dim sum to balance the intensity.

I had forgotten about the stews of millet, flour, green beans and potatoes, dipping sauces made of vinegar and crushed red peppers in my childhood in Shanxi. I'd forgotten about the soup noodles with crushed soybeans and rice, steamed dumplings, and soups of pickled cabbage.

I was excited about any food and any Chinese food. In America, I identified as Chinese and not as much Shanxinese Chinese.

Naturally I rummage through social media, food and travel magazines including Time Out Magazine and Xiaohongshu, the former a global food and drink magazine, the latter a Chinese social media where users post all kinds of content including food and pictures.

[insert Time Out and Xiaohongshu icons or sth].

It wasn't until I saw one northeastern Chinese restaurant recommendation on Xiaohongshu that I realized how much a soy and flour based stew of green beans, potatoes, and buns soaked in a savory, mushy sauce felt a lot more like home.

What I might not get on Time Out, I thought, I may be able to get on Xiaohongshu. What I might not get in Chinatown, I may get in Flushing.

Flushing is always my better bet, sometimes with surprises of what I wouldn't expect to find. A cart of candied hawthorn on the day of Lunar New Year, a paper box of hot stinky tofu to eat in the harsh cold wind, and a clay pot of fried pork, seaweed, tofu and noodle stew in a stool seat surrounded by unadorned white walls.

A northern small city kid's dream.