Snert looks like it sounds: like snot with things floating in it.
I attribute my new-found love of hot bowls of snert to hours spent cycling through cold rain under skies that turn from black to pale-grey to black again in the slim space between midmorning coffee and school pick-up.
With a belly full of snert, I recently parked my bike in front of a Chinese storefront. Puzzling through the characters, a pang of sadness passed over me as I thought about the spicy gan bian siji dou (干煸四季豆) that I used to eat at every opportunity in China.
Then the wind changed and I smelled hot, old grease being used to cook oliebollen (literally “oil balls”). Hypnotized by fistfuls of deep-fried dough coated with powdered sugar, I forgot about Sichuan spices and was briefly seduced into thinking that the Dutch winter sky was a particularly lovely color of dank, steel grey.