I Still Dream About That Mall Chinese Chicken
It’s 1995. I’ve got two toddlers in a double stroller, one of ’em sticky from a half-melted lollipop, the other yelling about a Pokémon toy he saw in Sears. I’m exhausted. I’ve got exactly twelve dollars to my name that day and no intention of cooking dinner when I get home. So, where do we end up? The food court. Always. And you know what caught my nose before anything else — that sweet, garlicky, caramelized chicken smell. The guy with the red apron handing out toothpicks like he was Oprah giving away cars. One bite of that sticky, glazy …










