Before and After

There are basically two periods in a life. The time before you understand sriracha, and everything after. This is not hyperbole. It’s a Thai hot sauce from Si Racha—a coastal city that’s given its name to something most people will use for the rest of their lives. Chilies, vinegar, garlic, sugar, salt. That’s it. That’s the entire thing, and it’s somehow perfect.

I can’t remember when I first had it, but I remember understanding it. That sharp, acidic heat that makes you want another bite instead of stopping. The garlic cutting through. This small sweetness underneath that shouldn’t work but does. After that, it went on everything. Scrambled eggs. Rice. Cold leftovers at midnight because I was too hungry to cook. Dumplings, noodles, fish, whatever was sitting there.

There’s this phase where you find something and it’s suddenly in every drawer of your kitchen. You buy multiple bottles because the alternative—running out—feels impossible. Thai restaurants have it on the table, Vietnamese places have it, Korean barbecue has it. It works with good food and makes bad food tolerable. It’s one of those rare things that doesn’t care about context.

I’ve never made it. I’ve seen videos of the factories, the massive vats, the automation of it all. It looks clean and competent, which is fine. But I don’t need to know how it’s made. I just need it waiting in the fridge, something you reach for without thinking, like it’s always been part of your life.