There’s nothing edgy about dumplings. The proper noise to make when eating them is a slurp. If you’re normally attractive, you’ll be less so with soy sauce dripping down your chin or marinara sauce on your cheek. You may want to unbutton the top of your pants when you finish eating, but only to give your belly more room.
Other foods become the subject of love songs. Think of Mtume singing “Juicy Fruit” (“You’re my sugar thing,/ My chocolate star”). Think of the Archies singing “Sugar, Sugar” (“Sugar, ah honey honey,/ You are my candy girl/ And you’ve got me wanting you”). What the heck, think of Mtume again (“I’ll be your lollipop./ You can lick me everywhere”). Other foods get some. But not boiled or steamed dough with stuff inside. The only popular lyric that focuses on dumplings (at least the only one I can think of) emphasizes the un-sexy, the un-edgy, the slovenly: “Diddle, diddle, dumpling, my son John/ Went to bed with his trousers on;/ One shoe off, and one shoe on,/ Diddle, Diddle, dumpling, my son John.” Apparently My son John ate a plate of shumai, a couple of kreplach, a bowl of ravioli, and a dozen steamed buns and collapsed from the effort of removing a shoe. So, if you want someone to hold you and control you and then melt you slowly down like chocolate (Kylie Minogue), skip the dumplings. But if you’re looking for simple comfort, there’s nothing better.
My PI, like many other PIs, has struggled with various addictions (alcohol, cocaine) –and with the attractions of the edge – but he mostly has put his chemical dependence behind him. When the burden of the world becomes too much for him, he turns instead to a different escape mechanism. Pierogi. As he knows, they’re best taken with sour cream, though he also likes his with applesauce.