My Grandmother’s Dumpling

Amy Ma

Amy Ma is a writer who trained as a pastry chef in New York City and now lives in Hong Kong. This article, which first appeared in the Wall Street Journal, provides both information about how to make dumplings and the story of several generations of Ma’s family. As you read, think about how cooking and family intersect in your own life.

1

There was no denying a dumpling error. If the meat tumbled out of a poorly made one as it cooked, Grandmother could always tell who made it because she had personally assigned each of us a specific folding style at the onset of our dumpling-making education. In our house, a woman’s folding style identified her as surely as her fingerprints.

2

“From now on, you and only you will fold it in this way,” she instructed me in our Taipei kitchen in 1994, the year I turned 13. That is when I had reached a skill level worthy of joining the rest of the women—10 in all, from my 80-year-old grandmother, Lu Xiao-fang, to my two middle-aged aunts, my mother and the six children of my generation—in the folding of jiao zi, or dumplings, for Chinese New Year. Before then I had been relegated to prep work: mixing the meat filling or cutting the dough and flattening it.

3

Cousin Mao Mao, the eldest daughter of my grandmother’s first son, had been away for four years at college in the U.S. But with casual ease, she fashioned her dumplings in the style of the rat, tucking in the creases and leaving a small tail that pinched together at one end. Two distinct pleats in a fan-shaped dumpling marked the work of Aunt Yee, Mao Mao’s mother, who had just become a grandmother herself with the birth of a grandson. A smaller purse-like dumpling with eight folds toward the center was my mother’s. Grandmother’s dumplings were the simplest of the bunch—flat, crescent-shaped with no creases and a smooth edge. And as I was the youngest in my generation, she’d thought it appropriate to make my signature design a quirky variation of her own, with an added crimping to create a rippling hua bian, or flower edge.

4

“A pretty little edge, for a pretty little girl,” she said.

5

While dumplings graced our tables year-round, they were a requisite dish during the Lunar New Year holidays. The Spring Festival, as it is known in China—chun jie—is arguably the most important celebration of the year: It is a time to be with family, to visit friends and start life anew—and eat dumplings.

6

The length of observance varies. Today in Taiwan, the national holiday stretches to nine days—including two weekends—with all businesses and government offices closed. In mainland China, officials rearrange the working calendar to give the public seven consecutive days off, while in Hong Kong there are three public holidays and in Singapore, two. Unofficially, many Chinese people consider the traditional period of the first 15 days appropriate to welcome the new year.

7

My family celebrated the first three days of the Spring Festival in a traditional way: Everyone came “home,” which meant to my grandfather’s house. We were already home—my father, mother, brother and I lived in Taipei with my father’s parents, who had moved from China in the late 1940s. Most of my father’s family lived nearby. On chu yi, the first day of the new year, friends came to our house to extend greetings. For chu er, the second day, married women returned to their parents’ house. The third day, chu san, was always celebrated united, as a family. And on each of those days, dumplings were the main food served during lunch and dinner. There might be other side dishes—leftovers from New Year’s Eve—but no other food was prepared from scratch during the holiday. It was considered bad luck to do any work during this time; to ensure a peaceful year ahead, you had to rest and that meant no cooking.

8

Though it isn’t known exactly when dumplings came into being, author and Chinese food expert Fuchsia Dunlop says jiao zi date as far back as 1,100 years ago. “In the city of Turpan, a tomb was uncovered that had boiled dumplings from the Tang dynasty (618–907) preserved in much the same shape with similar fillings as they are today,” says Ms. Dunlop.

9

Many people believe the practice of eating these dumplings on Chinese New Year became popular in the Yuan and Ming dynasties, which stretched from 1271 to 1644, when yuan bao—gold and silver ingots—began to take hold as currency in China; the dumplings take the shape of those coins. During new year celebrations, filling your stomach with edible replicas of ingots was thought to ensure a year of prosperity ahead. The packaged bites also celebrated a letting go of the past, since the word “jiao” also means “the end of something.”

10

Traditions have relaxed: Not every family eats only dumplings for three days. They also vary regionally: In the south of China, nian gao, or rice cakes, are often served instead of these dough-swaddled morsels at Chinese New Year. Still, hefty portions of dumplings undoubtedly remain a big attraction this time of year in many Chinese households.

11

Even now, that initial bite of any dumpling transports me back to our Taipei kitchen: the women packed like sardines working on their craft with a Zen-like rhythm, the flour-dusted countertops, the air redolent with the scent of dough, and the faded brown ceramic tiles on the floor polished smooth by countless footsteps over the years.

12

The great dumpling cook-off commenced each year following Lunar New Year’s Eve dinner, a family meal of Grandmother’s best dishes—sweet soy-braised pork, ru yi cai (10 vegetables tossed together with a soy-sauce vinaigrette), and always steamed fish since its term in Mandarin, “yu,” is a homonym for “plenty.” By 9 p.m., the plates were cleared and washed, and the women were clustered in the kitchen.

13

The men, forbidden to enter the cooking area, dispersed to their separate corners to talk politics and play dice or mahjong while awaiting the countdown to midnight. Every room of the house swelled with festivity as the whole family of more than 30 members—four generations—gathered for this night in my grandparents’ house.

14

Amid the bustle, the kitchen alone had an air of serenity and purpose as the women worked through the night. Before dawn of the next morning, there would be enough dumplings to cover two large dining room tables and every kitchen countertop.

15

To start, Grandmother unloaded from the refrigerator the large ball of dough made from flour, cold water and a dash of egg white (her secret ingredient) that she had prepared the day before. Setting it onto the butcher block with her plump and sturdy hands, she ripped off two large balls and rolled each into a log, starting her gentle kneading from the center and stretching out to both sides. The remaining dough she kept covered under a damp towel.

16

Meanwhile, the rest of the women—my mother and two aunts and my cousins and me—picked over bunches of coriander and peeled off the wilted layers of scallions and cabbages. A liberal douse of salt sprinkled over the cabbage drew out the excess water, and the chopped confetti-like bits were hand-squeezed to prevent a watery dumpling filling. The butcher knife rocked repeatedly back and forth on the ginger and garlic until it was almost a paste. Likewise, the vegetables had to be diced as finely as possible so they would be evenly spread through every bite of the final product.

17

Ignoring the slew of innovative options for fillings popular in contemporary restaurants—shrimp and chives, shark’s fin and vermicelli—we filled our no-frills dumplings with minced pork. Into the pink ground meat went the chopped speckles of vegetables and herbs along with sesame oil, Shaoxin wine, salt, soy sauce, a pinch of sugar, white pepper, five-spice powder and an egg. Nothing was measured, yet it always tasted the same.

18

“That’s enough mixing,” Grandmother cautioned. My mother was using a pair of wooden chopsticks to combine the ingredients in large circular motions. Grandmother insisted on only combing through the filling in one direction—clockwise—so as to not over-mix, which would make it tough.

19

Then like a carefully orchestrated master plan, a natural assembly line formed. First, Grandmother cut off equal-size segments of her log of dough and then passed them to my mother, who used a wooden roller to flatten them into circles, a process called gan mien. Two aunts continued to fashion new dough into logs on one end of the kitchen counter, and three cousins lined up on the other end to begin filling and folding dumplings. The positions would alternate periodically, and makers would move up the line over the years as their skills improved. At 5 years old, my job had been the menial task of pressing the just-cut dough segments into flat disks so they would be easier to roll out, but I had since graduated to a dumpling folder. All together, we women stood, each ready to play her part in this culinary theater.

20

“Every step requires its own kung fu,” Grandmother instructed in Mandarin. She was short, but her chubby silhouette held the solid stance of a symphony conductor. The process was tedious, but a mere mention of serving a frozen dumpling from a supermarket would be confronted with a gaze that screamed: uncultured, unbelievable, un-Chinese. The matriarch in her kitchen was doing more than just cooking; she was training the next generation of wives, daughters and mothers as her mother-in-law had taught her.

21

“Use your palm to control the roller, not your fingertips,” she barked. “Keep a steady rhythm, consistent like your pulse.” The dumpling skins weren’t flattened in one fell swoop like a pie crust. Each one had to be rolled just around the rim and rotated so that the resulting circle was thinner on the edges than in the center. When folded in half the two sides met; the dumpling skin was uniform in thickness. It was a painstaking task when repeated over the span of many hours, and my mother once showed me her swollen palms after a night of gan mien.

22

The amount of meat filling had to be just right. Not too much—“too greedy!”—and not too little: “too stingy!”

23

And dumplings had to be folded with both hands. “It’s a superstition,” Grandmother told us. “Women who fold dumplings with one hand won’t have children. Your right and left hand have to work together to be a good mother.” Grandmother demonstrated how she used the fleshy part of the index finger and thumb to press together the dough. Fresh dough, unlike frozen dough, didn’t need water to seal the seams. Only a firm pinch.

24

“Beautifully folded,” Grandmother commented on the dumpling of the newest granddaughter-in-law, Mei Fang. “But it took you too long to make. What good is a wife who makes lovely dumplings if there’s not enough to feed everyone?” Grandmother asked.

25

The women smirked at the acrid words—she had been equally harsh to all of them when they first joined the family. Grandmother had taken her lumps, too: After she married grandfather, her mother-in-law had harassed her on the ways of making a proper dumpling. Now, Grandmother reigned over her kitchen; it was a classroom and crucible we all endured.

26

“It’s better that I am more strict on you girls now,” she sighed. “Lest you get criticized by someone else even worse than me.” My mother looked over her shoulder to check on me, her only daughter, and smiled when I gave her an assuring nod.

27

When no one was looking, Grandmother washed a small coin and hid it in one of the dumplings to be discovered by a lucky winner, who was said to be blessed with extra good fortune for the new year. Despite my best efforts, I never chanced upon it.

28

Working until the early hours of the next morning in the kitchen brought out the juicier stories, ones laced with family secrets, scandals, gossips and tall tales, all soaked up by my youthful ears.

29

“Did you hear?Second uncle’s daughter got a tattoo.”

30

“So-and-so’s sister is really her daughter.”

31

By the time the echoes of popping firecrackers filled the streets signaling the stroke of midnight, hundreds of dumplings, ready for boiling, were lined up on the kitchen sheet pans like tiny soldiers pending a final command.

32

With only the boiling of the dumplings left to do, the women then took turns cleaning up and bathing, all the while trailing after their children and lulling them to bed. But the majority of the family didn’t sleep. The custom of shou sui, or staying up all night to symbolize having unlimited energy for the upcoming year, was usually followed.

33

Around 5 a.m., the tables were set in preparation for the midmorning dumpling brunch. But there was no counting of bowls or chopsticks. “You’re not allowed to count anything during the first day of the year,” reminded Grandmother. “If you don’t count anything today, then the amount of possessions you have will be countless for next year.” So we grabbed chopsticks by the handfuls—some wooden, some metal, all mixed in a pile—and laid them on the table alongside stacks of blue and white porcelain bowls and plates.

34

Before long, the first doorbell rang, and along with it came the boisterous greetings from guests, friends and neighbors. The words gong xi fa cai (“congratulations and be prosperous”) were audible even from inside the kitchen, and they drew out the younger girls, who were eager for their hong bao, or red packets. These waxy packets stuffed with money were given by elders to children as a gift, and the youngest in the house could often rack up what seemed to them a small fortune. Their flour-covered fingerprints dotted the envelopes as they calculated the year’s gains.

35

At 9 a.m. or when the guest count reached 10—enough to fill a table—we slid the dumplings into the stainless steel pot, careful not to let the boiling water splatter onto our bare toes, peeking out from house slippers. Grandmother insisted on never stirring the pot, and to ensure the dumplings wouldn’t stick together, she slid a spatula through the bubbling broth just once in a pushing motion. Thrice the water came to a boil and each time we added more water. By the fourth time, the dumplings bobbed merrily on the surface. They were done.

36

Grandmother fished out the broken dumplings before turning to Cousin Jia Yin, often the culprit, in half jest. “Ah... thanks to you, the dumpling soup will be especially tasty this year since you’ve flavored it with all the filling that busted out.” The casualties were fished out and quickly disposed of; broken dumplings are considered bad luck if served. To save Jia Yin’s face, her father, grandmother’s second son, often said at the table, “Dumplings are great, but my favorite is still the dumpling soup,” ladling up another bowl.

37

Guests and grandparents ate first and the two large tables in the dining room were seated by gender. My grandfather took the head seat at one table with his friends, and my grandmother with hers at the other. After they ate, the tables were reset and the second generation took its turn, with my father and uncles at one table, my mother and aunts at the other. The third and fourth generations had less strict table assignments and took whatever empty chairs opened up—it could be two or three hours before it was our turn to eat.

38

Steaming plates were heaped high with dumplings still glistening from their hot-water bath. Diners readied themselves with their own taste-tinkering rituals in concocting the perfect dipping sauce—a combination of soy sauce, vinegar, minced garlic and sometimes sesame oil or chili paste. Grandmother’s special la ba vinegar, marinated with whole garlic cloves, was the most coveted condiment.

39

Before the first bite, everyone gathered around Grandfather, who made a toast—usually with tea though sometimes he would sneak in some Chinese wine—to ring in the new year. Then, he took the first pick of the dumplings—something of an honor among the women, who held their breath in hopes that his choice of the perfect dumpling would be their own. It would have to have the ideal skin-to-filling ratio, every bite an equal portion of meat and dough, and expert craftsmanship—a balanced and symmetrical shape with firmly sealed seams.

40

“This one looks good to me,” my grandfather decided, gently lifting the plump parcel with the tips of his chopsticks. It was Grandmother’s dumpling, and she stood poker-faced next to him, not revealing her triumph.

41

She remembered a time when her dumplings were the only ones on the platter. As her family grew, so too did the styles of dumplings until the plate resembled an eclectic family tree, and each doughy pouch carried within it the cross-generational memoirs of its maker. The dumpling ritual slowly faded after Grandmother’s passing in 1999; Grandfather died soon after and the family scattered. But every Chinese New Year, I still make dumplings in Grandmother’s way, repeating her lessons in my head.

42

“Eat more! Eat more! There’s magic in these dumplings,” Grandmother would say. And she meant it truly.

Reacting to Language

In paragraph 19, Ma describes the process of making dumplings as “a carefully orchestrated master plan”; in paragraph 20, she calls the process “tedious.” Identify other descriptions of the process in this essay, and then write a single sentence that characterizes the process.

Question

Reacting to Ideas

Reacting to the Pattern

Writing Practice