“Dad, what are you doing? Don’t eat that. It’s too late.” This was the accusatory statement I shot across the kitchen at 10:45 PM one night as I was typing away at my computer. I had been getting myself organized for winter quarter during break and stayed up late with my work at the kitchen counter. My dad closed the fridge, holding some chocolate pie in one hand and a cookie in the other. 

“Eh, Koñcōntu tāṉ,” he replied nonchalantly. “Only a little bit.”