i. i cook the same way my mum does, more or less. of course — her hands are faster, defter; sure in the easy confidence of a lifetime of handling knives and sizzling oil. at the root of it, though, we think of homemade food the same way. anything we make on the daily is simple, fresh, and typically light — as opposed to the heaviness of “outside food.” efficient and straightforward.
ii. the school holidays of my childhood were spent laughing and running around my grandparents’ garden. the tropical sun: a watercolour splash come each evening. now, my biaojie1 and i crowd their kitchen, crushing garlic and slicing shallots crouched on cool stone floor or perched just at the steps leading out back. now, i whirl circles around five people in the kitchen at any one time, handing off bowls and plates and spices in turn; preparing dinner for thirteen requires something of a song and dance, a rhythm my lungs know as their own.
iii. now, we call for the kids to eat, my youngest cousins a cacophony of mixed languages and intertwined accents. growing up, i always loved my grandparents' homemade dishes the most: our mealtimes always a bustling affair of hunting for extra stools and scrabbling to haul over the piano bench. squished as we all are around the dining table, its polished wood unchanging even through the steady thrum of time. i watch the little ones elbow each other, fumble for serving spoons, for additional helpings; i watch them eat the food i made, excitedly chattering away, and realize quietly:
iv. yes, it is the food. yes, it is the ingredients, the seasoning — til this very day i lament the particular soy sauce i’ve only ever seen in my grandparents’ town. yes, it is my grandparents’ homegrown vegetables, their hands and hearts. but also i cook the same way my mum does, the same way my grandparents do. isn’t that something. everything we handle is washed by our own hands. under the flat of a knife, garlic is crushed first, left to sizzle long enough to be beautifully golden, crunchy and fragrant. bok choy and green dragon lettuce snaps easily in our hands. sugar snap peas and any kind of long beans are always knifed of their tough strings; any kind of gourd is chopped in a rotation, with one exception: cucumbers.
v. my uncle takes great humour in watching my xiaoyi2 and i insist on re-washing supermarket proclaimed pre-washed vegetables, when we squint at the colander of beansprouts, scoring off their fine roots. my brother and i devein prawns the same way, and take the same joy in peeling fruit after dinner. for as long as the days possibly number, i carry them with me. the recipes may be different, but even half a world away from both my hometowns, i can still taste home.
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biaojie1: Mandarin; refers to an older female cousin on the maternal side
xiaoyi2: Mandarin; refers to an aunt (mother’s younger sister)
