I'll try anything, but the pig testicles in Taiwan were a little

Hear, O children of taste and spirit, the words of Steven Adams, who once said: “I’ll try anything, but the pig testicles in Taiwan were a little much. Eh, it wasn’t half bad. There was this one dish I had there, the translation is, ‘The Monk Jumps over the Fence.’ It’s a fish dish with all these spices. It was beautiful, man—it was poetry. It had a whole story.” Though spoken with humor, these words unveil a truth that transcends kitchens and dining tables: that food, when crafted with care and meaning, becomes more than sustenance—it becomes art, it becomes memory, it becomes story.

For in the East, as in all ancient lands, the making of food has long been more than the filling of the belly. The dish Adams names—“The Monk Jumps over the Fence”—was born in Fujian, centuries ago. It is said that the fragrance of the broth, filled with seafood, herbs, and rare ingredients, was so alluring that even a monk, bound by vows of vegetarian restraint, leapt over the monastery wall to taste it. This tale gave the dish its name, and the name gave the dish a story, so that every bite carried not only flavor but legend. Thus Adams, though a traveler from afar, recognized in it something greater than cuisine: he recognized poetry.

For what is poetry if not the weaving of the senses into meaning? Just as a poem uses rhythm, metaphor, and image to stir the soul, so too does such a dish use fragrance, texture, and taste to stir memory and imagination. Adams spoke true: the food was not only delicious—it told a story. It carried within it centuries of tradition, the creativity of the cook, and the living memory of a people who turned ingredients into myth. To taste it was to be part of that story, to share in its poetry without needing words.

Consider how often food has bound humanity together in this way. The banquets of ancient Greece were not merely meals but stages for philosophy, where Plato’s Symposium transformed wine and bread into a dialogue of love. In the Middle East, the sharing of dates and coffee became a ritual of hospitality, a sign of respect and kinship. Even in modern times, dishes like gumbo in Louisiana or sushi in Japan carry with them the voices of history, migration, and identity. In every culture, food has the power to be more than nourishment; it can be song, memory, poetry itself.

Adams’s humor about the pig testicles reminds us, too, of the courage and curiosity required to step beyond one’s comfort. Not every dish will be “beautiful,” not every taste will move the soul. Yet the willingness to try, to explore, to embrace the unfamiliar, is the path by which one discovers hidden poetry in the world. For had he refused the challenge, he would never have encountered the fragrance and legend of “The Monk Jumps over the Fence.” In this, his words teach us that discovery often lies just beyond discomfort.

The lesson, then, is clear: approach life as Adams approached the table—with openness, with humility, and with curiosity. Whether through food, art, or conversation, be willing to taste the unfamiliar. For in the unfamiliar lies the chance to discover something that speaks to the soul. Do not limit yourself only to what is safe or ordinary, for then you will never encounter the poetry of the extraordinary.

Therefore, O seekers of beauty, remember this: life itself is like a grand feast. Some dishes may unsettle, others may delight. Yet among them will be those rare offerings—whether food, song, poem, or story—that carry within them the spirit of a people and the essence of the human heart. When you find them, receive them with reverence, for they are more than sustenance—they are poetry, and they tell the story of who we are. Eat, then, not only with the mouth but with the soul, and you will taste the poetry of life.