One of our favourite parts of Wuhan was getting breakfast. When we were ready for it, we'd trot off into the street, picking our way between piles of melons and nuts to our preferred barrel, where a trio of grinning bakers would slap around some dough, toss on some spices, and drop the dough into the boiling oil; two minutes later, there was our breakfast, hot and fried and ready to clog arteries at twenty paces. Even William (who spent the trip wailing tragically "IT's SPIIIICCYYY!!" and might have starved if not for our forethought in bringing peanut butter) loved the breakfasts, and Matthew would gobble down pounds of it, beaming all over his greasy face.