My grandparents don’t show affection in the traditional way. They don’t tell us they love us and they aren’t used to hugs. Instead, they say it all through food.
My yeye (grandpa) and nainai (grandma) live about three hours away by train. But we’re all so busy with our lives that we hardly get to see each other. Every time we visit, nainai fusses over whether or not we’ve eaten and yeye spoils us with snacks, pale pink hawthorn flakes, and mint-flavored throat candy he buys just for us. Some of its gone stale from sitting in the dark for so long, and some of its just… a little weird. We eat it anyways.
But nothing beats the dumplings, made from scratch by the entire family. We eat it to say hello, to say goodbye, and they never let us leave without packing more for the road. Every dumpling says “I love you”.
In Chinese culture, dumplings or jiaozi 饺子 signify reunion. Just like during Chinese New Year, whenever my parents bring us back to our hometown, everyone comes home to eat. We each play our part in the dumpling assembly line, and with each pair of hands the dumpling passes through, we are reminded of all the ways we’re connected.
Yeye starts off early in the day by kneading the dough. The finished dough is passed down to my dad and uncle, who tear them into chunks, smoothing them into little balls to be coated in flour and flattened with the press of the palm. Around and around goes the rolling pin, hands twisting the dough and churning out perfect circles of dumpling skin, slightly thicker in the middle and impossibly round.
Making dumplings at the speed of light
Then it’s time to add the fillings and shape the dumplings. Every family folds them in their own way. My dad’s family is from Shandong. They make it the northern way: a quick pinch to the middle and two thumbs that press the corners together like a golden nugget. My mother’s dumplings are different. She taught me to pleat them the southern way, with a ring of folds decorating the dumplings like a crown. These dumplings are slower to make and stand out from the others with their intricate folds. I learned how to fold both, northern and southern.
But the real test comes when it’s time to put them in hot water.
Will the jiaozi hold? Or will they spill precious fillings? My grandpa slides them from the chopping boards into the boiling water. In the pot, it doesn’t matter what the dumpling skin looks like as long as they don’t fall apart. Just like how we stay together as a family, despite all our differences.
We may live 500 km apart. My sister and I may struggle to understand our grandparents’ local dialect and old-fashioned ways. But when it comes to dumplings, no translation is necessary.
Even after we return to Beijing, we continue to feast on our grandparents’ love. We inherited more than family recipes and cooking skills. Making jiaozi with my family gave us a better understanding of where we came from.
With everything going on in the world, there’s no telling when we’ll be able to visit my grandparents next. But my sister and I have learned enough from them about making dumplings that the next time we see them, we’ll be ready to show our love.
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Photos: TianTian Xu, unsplash
