biang biang mian
A culinary meditation on hand-pulled noodles, preserving traditions, and what it means to connect with my roots
Inhale, exhale.
A stream of lightly-salted water trickles shyly onto a bed of wheat flour. I watch it eagerly drink the fluid as I pour in a circular path, then pause to mix with a pair of chopsticks. When the flour becomes dry again, I quench its thirst, small splashes at a time, until milky, jagged clumps form, gradually increasing in size and marrying. Soon, the dough grows too unwieldy for chopsticks and I get in with my hands. My senses sharpen – the hairs on my neck suddenly perk up as my fingers touch moist dough. The experience becomes tactile and tacky, slickly snapping me into the moment.
I massage the clump of water and flour, unsightly at first, but with patience, its ripples and knots are kneaded until smooth and firm. Like a baby’s butt, as they say. Soon, its flesh becomes too tight that it resists my treatment, so I lay off. I sense its cue to rest, a brief 15-minute respite, but it is anything but relaxed. Each minute is more unnerving than the last. There is a slowly-churning unease, a knot in my gut I can’t seem to untangle. I sleep with this nagging anxiety each night, sometimes waking up in sweats. I can’t decide whether to keep moving or stay still, because neither seem to shake the feeling.
My timer rings; I continue treatment. Pressing firmly into the dough with the heel of my hands, I suddenly reach the bottom of the mixing bowl, sensing cold steel. Whoa. Its texture, now relaxed and supple, easily sinks to the weight of my hands. I’m amused and awed, feeling the dough become limber and loose. I play with it, warping and bending the dough as it folds in on itself, perpetually swallows itself, until it quickly seizes up tightly again. I’m heaving and pushing but the dough pushes back, signaling to me once again for relief. How quickly the threads become taut again, and how slowly they loosen.
Reluctantly, I cover the dough with a wet towel and rest my imminently sore arm. Time, this day, becomes marked by 5-minute spurts of kneading, then 15-minute intervals of rest. My being is imbued with this rhythm – a push-and-pull between tension and relaxation. An ebb and flow, between strain and release. Chaos and form. Grief and gratitude.
Inhale, exhale.
In this way, I heal.
Chinese New Year is around the time each year I toss out all my New Year’s resolutions (which are all work-related) and reorient myself on the things that really matter to me. On what is actually fulfilling. It’s the Year of the Ox and I set my sights on a new goal: learn how to pull noodles. I’ve been meaning to work more with dough and pastry but had been unsure of where or how to begin. All signs point me towards sourdough and semolina. Everywhere I look, I see ciabattas and croissants. Multimillion dollar marketing budgets and Tiktok sponsorships are hurling cash at me, at us, to bake more baguettes and eat more pasta.
Man, fuck your sourdough starter, I type angrily into my word processor before deleting the file. For the record, I love sourdough. But it’s 2021, we’re neck-deep in this pandemic, and I’m not here for that. “Reckoning” and “New Normal” are our newest buzzwords (for better or worse) and the food industry is reeling from a turbulent, though necessary, upheaval of sorts. I’m coming to terms with how shaky its pillars are, finally crumbling from a long history of erosion, exploitation, and violence. We’re interrogating our idols – not only the ‘chefs’ that feed us but the voices that tell us what to eat – and focaccia just ain’t gonna cut it for me. I choose an entry point into dough that is decidedly-different, decidedly-Asian, because “it matters”, or so I think.
“What does it mean to connect with my culture?”
Almost everything I do now surges with violent emotion, an undercurrent that tremors with sorrow and rage and anguish – even walking to my car, or serving customers at work, or cutting vegetables at home. I am made aware of every movement, every decision, every angle I appear, because my mere existence is so starkly apparent, so unwelcome and repulsive.
I wonder if I am just being defiant and immature, harboring a sort of late teenage rebellion, because at this point, I am eager to spite White culture wherever I can. Maybe I’m just angsty. If I’m already repulsive, why not piss them off even more while I’m at it?
This will not last, no, not like this. Is this what truly inspires change? What good is it to highlight and preserve our food cultures if we will never be accepted? After all, it’s cool to like dim sum now, yet everyday, I still see headlines of people who look like my parents and grandparents being brutalized. This Lunar New Year, I feel a particular heaviness, as if weighed down by an insufferable yoke – the yoke of violence, oppression, and intergenerational trauma. No, being absorbed into the fog of American acceptance is not my motive.
If I am repulsive, then presence is the first form of resistance and pride is the second. This is no mere angst. This is a struggle of being, of becoming. What difference does it make to cook my own food? I can’t be sure but if I don’t take up space, the space will swallow me.
Consume, me.
In my being, I am revolting, piercing the haze of whiteness that threatens to devour my presence. And for that, I ask my ancestors to lend me their indomitable strength and resilience.
The cooling, evening breeze, the dim stove light, and the bags of tired eyes hint the passage of time, if not the final timer ringing, marking the end of a two hour rest. The noodles are ready for pulling. Resting beneath a damp towel, the dough is portioned and shaped into wedges, pale like unfired clay. Our old, rattling range fan roars tiredly above a vat of boiling water just beginning to gurgle. The kitchen sets off into motion again.
First indenting the noodle lengthwise with a chopstick, I then pull the dough, which easily surrenders and stretches to my will. When it reaches arm’s length, I flick the noodle downwards like a jumprope; it noisily slaps against the countertop. Satisfied, I fling it down again and again, watching the noodle grow in length and shrink in width until it’s just short of my wingspan. But I am held back by beginner’s hesitation, not knowing that the dough has so much more to give. I split the strand of dough from the indentation and tear, forming a singular, closed-loop noodle nearing 8 feet in circumference. Using my hands and forearms, I maneuver the lanky dough to the stove and into boiling water.
油泼面, yóupōmiàn, is traditional name of the dish but it’s become more colloquially known by its distinct noodle shape and technique, biángbiángmiàn, with the word biáng being an onomatopoeic reference to the sound of the dough hitting the kitchen counter. I learned that from the Xi’an Famous Foods cookbook, which my sister gifted to me upon learning of my latest obsession. Having read it, I’m now realizing that I should have learned Longevity Noodles, which are clearly the more auspicious choice for LNY. But superstitions aside, even that doesn’t quite match up with what I recall from the murky depths of my memory.
Eddie Huang’s father used to tell him, “you belong to a civilization that’s 5,000 years old. We are the first in our family to be in America. We have never been here.” It is our duty then, to remain connected, to keep this millennia-long thread attached. How might I keep this string of history and cultural heritage spinning? There are gaps and tears in this thread, areas that need mending. Maybe I can knead this dough, impressing the patchwork with meaning, weaving strands of memory and gluten.
Estranged is the term I might use to describe my relationship to my culture. Of course, it is not true, but if he believes that of himself, it is true enough. My Mandarin is worsening, I am nearly illiterate in Chinese, and it seems I’m always trying to make up for some immeasurable loss. I miss cues all the time and I never quite figured out how to “respect my elders”. At our latest Sunday dim sum outing, my partner’s father (who I address as su su) sat to my right, then her maternal grandmother, paw paw, another seat over. Paw paw pours tea for su su, who taps his two fingers twice and says thank you. Then, she pours tea for me and I follow suit – tapping my fingers and saying thank you – and I naively think I’m doing a great job. I’m just killing it out here.
Later on in the meal, su su tells me in a hushed voice, “when someone pours tea for you and they’re reaching over the person next to you, you should offer to take the teapot from them and serve the next person.” My heart sinks. He reassures me that it’s okay and that it’s just a matter of simple table manners and respect, but I can’t help but feel like I was being tested and my true colors were exposed. My American-ness was showing.
Sometimes, it’s these tiny, nuanced missteps that sting the most because they remind me just how culturally-stunted I am. Although she harbors no ill intents towards me, paw paw is traditional, which, for me, translates to “difficult to impress”. I was taught at a tender age to hold a deep reverence for my grandparents but I wasn’t taught how to hold a conversation with them, interact with them, or build a relationship with them. My parents weren’t the greatest teachers either so I retained only the simplest formalities, nothing more. My whole life, my elders have towered over me and my back is perpetually slouched, as if in a constant posture of bowing.
Why is it that we think of identity as a physical state, a place to “arrive” at or to depart from? What must happen for someone to think of the person they already are as a far away place? I cannot quell this undying suspicion of myself, the way I speak so gushingly of food. Perhaps it is a symptom of desperation – forcing my own meaning into utter emptiness. Maybe I romanticize food because I am trying to make up for some immeasurable loss. Maybe these are longings I will take to the grave – ones that are never satiated, only endured. Hunger pangs that swallow themselves into nothingness, over and over again.
Resting is important because it allows the dough time to release tension so that it can be stretched again. During the kneading process, gluten’s proteins link up with one another to form long threads that stretch and overlap, weaving a vast, intricate web. These strands can only be stretched so far before they stiffen and grow tense. If I keep kneading, the threads will snap. But if I let the dough rest, the threads will continue to stretch, elongating themselves to thousands of times their original length. Its strength now multiplied, the noodle can withstand the harsh impact against steel – pliable and bending to brute force, yet never breaking.
Then, the battered noodle is dropped into a boiling bath, where its chewy, springy texture of resistance is captured. It’s this web of gluten that creates “the bite that bites back.” In short, rest cultivates resilience.
I first developed my reverence for family matriarchs with my paternal grandma, who I addressed as a-ma. She, too, was a foodie. Though she was soft-spoken and kind, there was a certain gravity to her presence, as if a simple nod of approval carried the weight of a Michelin star. Taking a-ma out to eat was a weekly family affair and she knew the best places to eat. Many Saturdays of my childhood were spent in traffic on the 10 and 60 freeways – latitudes of the San Gabriel Valley – en route to seedy noodle houses, banh mi shops, and bustling seafood banquet halls with those large aquarium tanks. Much of my understanding of food, I’m now realizing, was shaped by this simple, but formative family ritual. On any given week, we could be enjoying Taiwanese jīsīmiàn, Shanghai-Jiangsu style steamed bao’s, Hainan Chicken Rice, or other region-specific specialties. My sense of flavor was molded by the robust immigrant communities and culinary landscape of the SGV.
Among the plethora of diasporic cuisines within our reach, dim sum was a-ma’s favorite. Sometimes, she would go through a phase and eat dim sum 2 to 3 weekends in a row – far too many times for my young, easily-fatigued appetite. But it was here that I began learning the importance of dining with a-ma, which oftentimes felt tantamount to going to church. I may have struggled to communicate with her but it was drilled into me to greet her properly, help her to her seat, wear proper attire (no open-toed shoes!), let her eat first, and never, ever let her pay for the meal. She rarely raised her voice but if she did, it was because she was fighting for the check.
There was a way we conducted ourselves at the table – how we poured tea, how we spun the lazy susan, how we served each other food. I will always remember the time my parents scolded me for crassly tossing my chopsticks on the table after I finished eating. As a teenager, I resented the stifling rigidity of what I thought were “trivial table manners” but they were teaching me about some mysterious depth of sharing a meal with a-ma, something even they struggled to articulate. Truly, there was a gravity within her being – the matriarch of four generations – that made her presence regal, if not divine.
I am pulling noodles in search of a specific memory, possessed by the conviction that flavors evoke a sense of time and place. If only I could connect those parted threads, I might just bridge the gap between past and present, closing the distance between me and my culture. I might just draw close to us.
I must have been in my middle school years when I first tried Lanzhou-style lāmiàn. I can still remember the mounting anticipation that day – my dad raving in animated hunger and trekking further beyond our usual strip malls – that set this lunch date with a-ma apart from the rest. They featured just one main dish, niúròumiàn, but offered five types of noodles. Our host took our order: “thin, medium, thick, triangle, or belt?” Without hesitation, I said, “belt”. While we waited, my dad pointed at the glass window to the kitchen behind us, “Look”!
I turned to the sight of Chinese masterchefs in whites, pulling dough to unthinkable lengths. It was like a magic trick, witnessing one noodle become 256 in a blink of an eye. I stared at the shīfù, slack-jawed, as they conducted swift sorcery with their powdery, seasoned hands. One of the chefs reached into another bin, revealing a particular swath of dough, and I proudly announced to the table, “that one’s mine”! He went to work on the thick band, whipping it down onto the steel counter with dramatic finesse, the “biang” resounding throughout the dining hall.
It was some 20 noodles into my Lunar New Year’s goal, perhaps in between bouts of rest, when I happened upon this memory – the first time I tried 皮帶麵 pídàimiàn, belt noodles. The canvas may have differed – beef noodle soup versus Shaanxi-style oil-sprinkled noodles – but it was the same, unforgettable, belt-sized noodle. Maybe it was the sound of the noodle slapping the counter, or the delectable, toothsome chew of a well-kneaded dough. Maybe it was the tactile experience, or the hours spent poring through cookbooks that brought me back to this moment of pure awe. This is a discipline of presence, the struggle of being. This is a return to who I’ve already become.
How do you make up for a loss? Sometimes, it feels like wet hands groping in the dark – pulling swaths of dough and tugging on the throughline of being a child in rapture.
It’s almost Mid-Autumn Festival – some eight months since I pulled my first noodle – and friends and family are learning of my cooking exploits. Victoria’s family is plotting a big get-together for Thanksgiving weekend, something a little grander than our usual gathering. It isn’t just the size of the party that’s adding to the anticipation; younger cousins are learning to fly on an airplane for the first time and Uncle is finally coming home after many years to see paw paw, whose weakening health has been worrisome. Sleeping bags and air mattresses are laid out for this multiple day affair. It’s not Chinese New Year but the aunties ready the snacks, gifts and red envelopes; this is an occasion.
“Everybody is going to be there; there’s a lot of people to cook for. Mind if you two bring something for one of the meals?”
Victoria’s parents call us and drop us a hint, not-so-subtly, that they want to try our biangbiangmian. She glances hesitantly at me, asking me with her eyes, can we do it? She knows it is a labor of love, but I nod, responding back, I’m down if you’re down.
I can’t say that I’m good at pulling noodles now but there is a dialect of touch that I’m finally placing my finger on after these eight months. It’s the dough sending me cues – when to knead more and when to rest. If it is parched or if it simply needs time. Though I’m decades away from those Lanzhou masterchefs, I’m beginning to piece together those syllables and sounds on my own, catching the cadence of the poetry.
Let’s make it into a party activity, we decide. Let’s get everyone involved and touching the dough. The eve of Thanksgiving, our quaint living space turns into a prep kitchen. Mounds of dough rest beneath wet towels in one corner while another batch is kneaded on the main counter space. The air is scented with wok-toasted chilis and high expectations, while the rhythmic chopping of garlic and scallion soundtracks our evening of toil. We churn out upwards of 50 belt-sized swaths of dough, carefully laid out on sheet pans and tupperware, ready to be stretched. We fill up quart containers with minced aromatics, toasted Tianjin chili powder, cilantro, and accompanying sauce. Our mise is ready.
The next day, we pack our car with duffel bags and dough – as if en route to a weekend popup – and trek over to Victoria’s family’s house. Aunts and uncles trickle in in their usual, less-than-punctual fashion, formalities are exchanged, and we prepare our stations. I manage the fire – a large stockpot of boiling water, a saucepan of hot oil kept just shy of smoking, and a precarious tower of bowls with portioned sauce. Victoria takes centerstage, the kitchen island upon which our dough will face its blunt trauma.
“It’s time to eat! Who wants to pull noodles??”, Victoria beckons the house to join us. Family relatives shuffle in, bringing their unfinished conversations with them, which are soon interrupted by the cool, slick touch of moist dough. The cousins get in with their hands, shy at first, but shortly succumb to their curiosities. Victoria and I give pointers intermittently, helping them position their bodies and parse the parlance. We tease the uncles for their clumsiness and lack of tact. It’s awkward, it’s greasy, it’s overall a big mess. But I take a step back and can’t help but let out a big, stupid grin, simply reveling at the sight of aunties and uncles play with noodles like it’s play-doh. The sight of old being young again. It’s chaotic and glorious, orchestrating this reenactment of my own mini Lanzhou masterchefs, and it’s sending me a rush of inexplicable, giddy joy.
A dozen shy slaps later, they line up to dunk their prized handiwork into boiling water. Inquisitive eyes watch closely as I stir the bands of dough in the steamy cauldron, then add cabbage shortly after, before finally straining and divvying the noodles into four bowls. They select their toppings – a heaping tablespoon of green onion, a scoop of garlic, and a dash of chili flakes, if they feel so brave. Little mounds of aromatics sit packed and perched atop the finished noodles; I shower them with blisteringly hot oil, cooking them instantly and suffusing flavor and fragrance throughout the dish. Stir, stir quickly!, I urge them, so that each noodle is coated. We continue in this fashion, boiling four servings of noodles at a time while sprinkling oil on another four, just like we rehearsed.
The kitchen echoes with the sounds of contentment – noodles noisily slurping, runny noses sniffling, uncles bellowing out, hou sik!, in between bites. Teary-eyed from the spice, aunties implore us for the Xi’an noodle sauce recipe (which we share graciously). It is a resounding success. I take a moment to catch a few bites before they line up for seconds. Victoria looks over at me and tells me, “good job”, and I know it’s not just about the perfectly toothsome dough draped in chili oil and xiang wei. It’s not only the wide eyes and sweaty cheeks induced by the sensory thrill of China’s great desert cuisine. It’s seeing long-lost relatives reunited over a bowl of noodles, boisterously cracking jokes in the living room, or huddled in other nooks of the house, relishing in quiet, but palpable delight.
“Grandma is waking up! Let’s make her a bowl”, one of the aunties report. We spring from our seats and assume our positions. “I think just one noodle is enough, and skip the chili powder.” Before the water reaches boiling point, paw paw arrives in the kitchen, helped to her seat by Victoria’s mom. We greet her, pay our respects and notice she looks livelier than she has in days. Victoria asks her how she’s been as I stand aside and smile, closely eyeing the rapidly heating oil and simmering water. My mind wanders a little, reminiscing about the last time we saw paw paw, just a few weeks ago on her birthday. I can still feel the blood still flushing from my face from having to say “happy birthday” to her in my ugly, croaky Cantonese in front of the whole family. And while I’m at it, my mind frantically slingshots to my last dim sum faux pas. Before I turn too pale, Victoria tugs on my arm and pulls me out of my daydream. The water is boiling; the oil is hot. Okay. Let’s do this. Let’s do this right.
Maybe it’s just me or maybe her eyes really are on me like a hawk. Is it that she is genuinely fascinated by the theatrics of the technique – much like I was as a child – or is she discerning my every movement, studying me like a panel of judges? I dare not look her way and find out. Whether or not it’s real or self-imposed, I feel the penetrating gaze of my elders, my ancestors, weigh heavy on me; my back bends over, slouching and succumbing to the gravity of their shadows. The oil sizzles and crackles as I pour with trembling hands. Intoxicating aromas of fresh green onion and garlic waft into the air, slightly dissipating the tension. I make sure to mix thoroughly and fold the noodles nicely before serving paw paw with a big smile. Busying myself with the dirty dishes, I turn away from their Cantonese chatter and pretend to not pay attention, but secretly, I am looking for a reaction, an approval, in my peripherals.
Minutes later, Victoria calls me over to the table and paw paw is wearing a big grin on her face. She gives me a thumbs up and says, hou sik! excitedly to me. Thank goodness. I receive her words of gratitude but I can’t quite quell the nagging thought that she’s just sticking to formalities. She’s just being nice, out of obligation. Nevertheless, I muster everything in me to suspend my own disbelief, to simply receive her words and her gratitude, as they are. Gradually, tightness is released in places I did not know were present.
Inhale, exhale.
The scent of 8-spice chili oil and Zhenjiang vinegar lingers among us, intermingling with the smells of the forthcoming meal. Victoria and I had prepped extra servings of noodles – in the likely event that unexpected visitors show up – but aunties and uncles devoured them the next day because they couldn’t help themselves. I get a taste of a true family reunion in this house – hitting the badminton courts Saturday morning, watching Shaolin Soccer during dinner, grabbing boba milk tea in between festivities. One uncle shows off his fancy chocolate collection in one room while a group of cousins play Jackbox games in the next. All this time, paw paw is beaming. I’m unsure if I was just too nervous to look her way or she really is carrying more vitality, more life, in her this time around. I can imagine the happiness she must be feeling, the sense of fulfillment from finally having her family all gathered in one place again.
There is a phrase in the Chinese language that I’m just learning about, 幸福 xìng fú, which we use to mean “happiness” in life. Growing up, I only knew 快樂 kuài lè, which also means happiness, the sort a child might feel while indulging in his favorite bowl of noodles. But to translate 幸福 to mere happiness would be an understatement, as it is not simply a fleeting high, but a steadiness of mind and spirit. It is a profound sense of gratitude, a contentment experienced from knowing you have enough. It’s to have reached a point of blessedness in life where you need not ask for more because your heart is full. I wonder if paw paw is experiencing a sense of 幸福 in this moment. Maybe she decided that it’s not worth fussing over the trivialities of tradition right now, not today. It’s too taxing to nitpick at their missteps and give them a hard time. After all, if you are feeling 幸福, the proper response, it seems, is not to hoard it but to share it freely with others. But who am I, an outsider, to say?
The aunties take lead for dinner on the second evening – fixing up an impressive spread replete with stir-fried qīng cài, steamed poultry, and other celebratory Cantonese fare. Predictably, I pester them to share their secrets and technique. I keep my finger on the pulse of life in the house, sensing it ebb and flow throughout the night. Some cousins finish their food quickly to resume their video games, others turn on Netflix, a couple sneak into the other room to play their instruments. Once again, I feel the lingering sensation of eyes fixating on me, like I’m being watched. But it doesn’t quite carry the same, burdensome weight as I’m accustomed to. I fix my posture and turn to see paw paw looking straight at me. Her face is lit up with high spirits. We make eye contact and I smile back, telling her to eat more. I offer to get her some more food, unsure of how else to bridge the gap in language, in generations, in worlds apart.
After a moment, she leans in closer to me and says to me, “謝謝 xièxiè”. My breath catches. In her limited Mandarin, she thanks me for cooking noodles for everyone and for serving her family. I fumble with my words to form a response, being thoroughly flustered from learning she could speak any Mandarin at all. I tell her that it’s no big deal, that I’m simply doing what ought to be done. Finally, any reservation I harbor of her – any disbelief that her words are honest and true – dissolve and her words pierce me. I’m floored by her generosity, that she would go out of her way and speak my mother tongue, meeting me where I am.
Is this the feeling of acceptance? I dare not say.
But her heart is open, even if only slightly ajar.
…
“Paw paw seems different”, Victoria says while we drive back home on the last night, confirming my suspicions.
“Different how?”
“She seems… happier. Lighter. Maybe it’s because everyone was together again. Or it’s just the old age. Not worth causing a fuss. Or I don’t know.”
I smile.
“Mm. Could have been all those things.”
I tell her what happened during dinner. Hours later, I’m still wrapping my mind around those simple, penetrating words. It is as if I know what she said, but I don’t quite know what I really received in me. Could this be a cure to the racial melancholia that has afflicted me for as long as I can remember? No, there are no such things. But perhaps, it is a remedy – a survival response to a punishing life and perpetual loss. Maybe posturing ourselves towards a character of kindness and 幸福 xìng fú is a form of resilience, in the face of pathological mourning without end. Maybe we are meant to be hungry because we are meant to eat. After all, is not hunger just another form of longing?
One year.
This is the struggle of being. I move with a heightened awareness of my body; there is intention in every maneuver. Every movement, every decision. One hand loosely grips and turns the rim of the steel mixing bowl while the dominant heaves and pushes into the dough. I have learned, or rather, my body has learned to adjust its position to reduce strain while I knead. Mimicking the dough, I keep my limbs firm but malleable, relying on my entire arm and body weight for strength, rather than just my wrist.
There are no timers set but I am committed to this rhythm of tension and release today. I trust my senses to be attentive and pick up cues, allowing the dough to speak for itself. With body and spirit, I connect and commune with the material at hand. Thrusting downward with vigor and violence, I feel the tremors quivering from the band of dough as it collides with the countertop. It thins out as the sensation of resistance lessens; it can probably take one, no, maybe two more blows.
After a quick dunk, the noodles are cooked through and springy. Hot oil is already shimmering on the side burner with wisps of smoke just beginning to appear. I hastily pile aromatics – the usual suspects – on the noodles but add in some freshly-ground cumin this time, a classic Shaanxi flavor. Then finally, a scattering of oil showers the spices and vegetables for a climactic, but necessary, finishing touch.
Though it’s far from my first time, the sensations it arouses are no less visceral and immediate. The daisy chain of scintillating spices electrify the senses (and sinuses) like a firecracker, opening up pores and eyes to unseen colors. The way the noodles push back with just the right amount of force sweeps me with unbridled pleasure.
Keep this thread spinning, I hear the mantra echo from within.
Remain connected.
Still chewing, I reflect on the past year of learning how to pull noodles, a journey that is still very much nascent and infantile. Even now, my noodle still snaps mid-pull; my understanding of flavor-textural balance needs more time to mature. My form needs work and my posture could use some tweaking. There is a slew of different flours I haven’t tried using yet. But the craft has opened me up to a massive reservoir of culinary denominations and niches I’m itching to dip my feet into. Northern-style laminated dough. Nian gao and other rice-flour-based batters. The conflux pastries of Hong Kong and Macau. It’s not that I’ve reached a point of mastery, or even proficiency, but this little passion project of mine has propelled me towards a life of endless curiosity and diligence. That I would look upon my own people and my ancestors with such reverence, I can only be grateful.
What is it really that I set out to do last Lunar New Year?
What started out as a perfectly innocent endeavor quickly turned into a feverish pursuit for childhood flavors – a search for nostalgia. It’s left me wondering what it really means to connect, and reconnect, with my culture, beyond the superficials (say, a mutual interest in boba and K-pop). It’s sent me scouring cookbook stores, Chinatowns, and intergenerational noodle houses. I never felt so lost, yet so hopeful.
My musty, greasy kitchen – powdered with bread flour and lined with dirty dishes – became an unlikely sanctuary to the outside world that seemed to grow more threatening and unforgiving each day. Churning and kneading the wet dough became a sort of much-needed play for a set of calloused hands. Pulling noodles became an exercise in mourning, a medium to understand hunger and diaspora longings. Curiosity and childlike wonder, I held in one hand, while heartache and grief, I held in the other.
But it is more than nostalgia. Authenticity goes beyond merely replicating childhood fantasies. It transcends the notion of “perfect” recipes: ones that scratch that itch just right, or flavors make you feel known and understood. Even after hours of arduous work, poring through cookbooks, and trying over ten distinct iterations of chili oil, I’ve learned that what brings me close to a culture is not simply how good my cooking is. Or how closely my 肉燥飯 matches my mother’s, or her mother’s. Because no amount of practice or technique will draw you closer to your culture than serving your people will.
It’s when we drop all pretense and feed someone that we make them dear to us. It’s when we share a table together that we see the awkward hiccups, the spoiling of our elders, the gossip and humor, the trilingual banter, the fighting for the bill – the peculiarities of ourselves. It’s the meal that humbles us, humanizes us. The communion of loved ones around a spread of dishes, this is the connection I seek.
We have a task at hand, a collective responsibility, to preserve traditions and safeguard heritage, lest the space consumes us. And while our fluency with these traditions may give us a feeling of proximity to culture, they are not everything that makes us who we are. I may attempt to relive (and re-cook) childhood memories for the rest of my life but my work must extend beyond the past. I have a duty of co-creating a future, a way of life, that honors those before me – one that flows with generosity, selflessness, and communal care. I am compelled to lead a life that is 幸福 xìng fú, and to share it openly with all.
Sometimes the most profound things we can do for one another are also the simplest. The unassuming depth of breaking bread together, the quiet strength in feeding someone who’s hungry. The way my ye ye served 魚丸 at the market everyday for decades. Kneaded and woven into the fabric of the dough are such things as kindness, hospitality, and the unwavering love of our matriarchs. This is what made my ancestors and elders great, and what I am really tasked to preserve.
I am stretched and contorted, battered and wrenched; bending to brute force, yet never breaking. Commune with the material at hand and I find my family heirloom, a worthy inheritance. The thread before me, the thread after me, I keep spinning.
