We were quite a boring family when I grew up in North Platte, Nebraska. There just weren’t very many super exciting things for a Chinese immigrant family to do in the small town and we lived on a dirt road, across from the empty field lot, next to the traffic light in the middle of nowhere. Usually on weekends, we’d stay at home. But once every couple of months, when we were feeling a bit frisky and itchin’ for some variety, we’d all pack in our puke green Chevrolet Impala station wagon (complete with the lovely wood paneled sides) and drive to the nearest Asian market - Denver, Colorado, which was four and half hours away and four and a half hours back. It was good to be near our peeps, stock up on Asian ingredients and pick up a Chinese newspaper, our only link to what was happening back home. Oh, those were wild times. Read the full story