I love potatoes. Always have, always will. In every form (fried, roasted, smashed) but preferably as thin, delicate fries. Potatoes and I go way back, and every fold on my body is basically a love letter to them. And of course, a devotion to fries and all other greasy delicious things, comes with its own sacred dipping rituals. Mine included an unbeatable combo of Maggi’s chili or Sinsin garlic chili swirled with kewpie — spicy, creamy and unapologetically Asian.

But looking back, all my ex-boyfriends have sworn by ketchup, like it was a moral stance. These ketchup purists would sit across from me, dipping with the smug confidence of men who thought they were teaching me something about life. They’d say, “You just haven’t had the right ketchup,” as if without Heinz or Hunt’s I’d been living a tragic, deprived life. I ignored them all. I also dumped them all, each for perfectly valid, unrelated reasons, though the ketchup evangelism was always clearly a red flag.

Then G showed up. He didn’t try to convert me. There were no arrogant proclamations, no TED Talk. He just quietly ate his food with ketchup, dipped his party pies the way he always did, and left me to my chili sauce and my habits.

Ten years later, I’m not quite sure what kind of weird voodoo condiment conversion happened, but I catch myself reaching for ketchup instinctively, like it’s always been mine. Except, it wasn’t. It’s his! But now it’s also weirdly…ours? Meanwhile, my chili sauce bottles stare at me from the fridge door, horrified, like they’re watching me betray my Asian roots for the whitest condiment of all.

It’s funny how in the small, sneaky ways someone’s life seeps into yours, and how they worm their way into your routines until you can’t tell whose quirks are whose. So yes, he got me on ketchup. I’ll give him that.

And sure, over time we may end up sharing the same condiments, the same cosy corner of our couch, and those rare moments when our wildly different TV show tastes overlap. But there is one thing I know we absolutely will not be sharing. Not today, not ever.

My potatoes. Because please. I may be in love, but I’m not deranged.