(this is annie)

This year's obsession is one that comes a few years too late to be cool. But when it comes to odd food compulsions, who cares? I first tried bubble tea in the insecure days after September 11. Kevin and I had gone to Chinatown for the day, and we took the risk of ordering the stuff despite suspicions that the mysterious edible balls were giant fish eggs. Sometimes, when I think of fish, I think of them swimming around human bellies. So logically, I thought of fish eggs hatching in my stomach, spawning tiny fishies that would soon die in the heat of my body, leaving a bunch of dead baby fish to float down my intestines before making their final exit into another kind of watery pool. I managed to swallow some of the bubble tea balls, but because the menu was mostly in Chinese with words like "beef ball" and "fish ball," I gave up after a few sips.

Last fall, after Phil and I had been dating for about a month, we ate dinner in Chinatown. I was happy because we'd just been to a haunted house, and it was the kind of autumn evening that crackled a little bit with energy. We ordered dinner and one bubble smoothie. Phil assured me that the bubbles were vegetarian and made of tapioca. So I sipped from his mango lychee smoothie happily. Since then, it's been all downhill. I cannot get enough. While I now know that the tapioca is fish-free, I am suspicious that there's something more nefarious to this addictive fruity treat. Because, you know, I cannot stop enjoying them. And I have to get all of my friends involved. And now that Jonny Mess and I go in on occasional Chinatown deliveries to the office—which, by the way, are not really cheap—I feel like I'm becoming a pusher.