Wrapped Up in Dumpling Memories

By Consuelo Le

When my parents moved from Shanghai to the United States in the late-1980s, they made a conscious effort to explore American culture. They basked in the beauty of Niagara Falls and the nightlights of Times Square, participated in the quintessential American barbecue, and even found time to visit the White House. When I visited Johns Hopkins University with them for the first time, where they conducted their postdoctoral research, my parents brought me to PJ’s, a little pub stuffed into the basement of their old apartment complex. As we walked down a flight of stairs alltoo-familiar to them, they smiled, happily reminiscing in their memories. Our lunch was filled not only with food but also with stories of them eating buckets upon buckets of chicken wings in these exact seats with their college friends. But even with all of these happy memories, I know they miss living in China, surrounded by their family and closest friends. When they moved to America, they knew they would grow distant from the culture that they had known for all of their lives. As a child, I had never contemplated the internal struggles they faced in merging their Chinese and American identities. Yet as I grew older, being Asian American became more significant to me. In these past few years, I have wanted to actively connect with my parents and their traditions, but I often feel as though I am not trying hard enough. After all, I have not visited China since I saw my grandparents six years ago, even though I used to visit annually as a child. Even though I tell myself that it is only because of my busy school schedule, the guilt comes creeping back every so often.

PHOTO: Jenny Chen

Just as my parents partook in American culture, by gorging on their bottomless buckets of wings, I try to connect with my Chinese culture by making traditional Chinese dishes with my family. Homemade bao buns and dim sum on the weekends were a staple throughout my childhood, but nothing stands out in my memory more than making dumplings with my parents. Even though I only have a few clear memories of growing up, I distinctly remember sitting on the kitchen counter and watching my mom prepare various fillings for that evening’s dinner. A mixture of scallions and eggs filled one bowl, while a filling of pork, spinach, and dried mushroom sat in another. My parents and I would sit around the kitchen table with homemade dumpling wrappers, our fillings, and a bowl of water.

Patiently and lovingly, my mom would show me how to carefully crimp and seal the tops of the white dumpling wrappers and how to ‘swaddle’ the fillings in pale yellow wonton wrappers so that they looked like cradled babies.

While hers would stand up smartly and beautifully, mine would flop over, clearly more interested in being tasty than picturesque. After wiping the excess flour off the table, I would watch my mom boil, steam, or fry up our pockets of goodness. She would ladle fresh wontons into a delicious soup or slide just-fried dumplings, with their crisp and golden edges, onto a plate with a variety of dipping sauces, from soy to sesame to chili oil.

PHOTO: Jenny Chen

No matter how bad my memory gets in the future, I know I’ll never forget these moments. Making dumplings together was not just a way to get dinner done quickly; it was a bonding experience, a time for my parents and I to talk about whatever came to our minds. Sometimes my parents would talk about their research experiments, and I would talk about school and friends. Other times, we would talk about our family in China and our connection to our culture. Even though family life is hard sometimes, making traditional Chinese food together has always reminded me of my love for them and my family in Shanghai.

Homemade dumplings are the one food in the world I will confidently claim, ‘my mom makes it better.’ The warm and uplifting memories of making and eating them with my family makes them the ultimate comfort food for me. One of the biggest downsides of being away at college is that I miss out on those weekend dumpling nights, especially when my parents send me pictures of their beautiful dishes while I spend the night nose-deep in biochemistry and physics textbooks.

Sometimes, I get nostalgic and pick up a package of premade dumplings from the local Asian supermarket; but as I fry them up in Ithaca, I wish that I was standing in my Pennsylvanian kitchen, peering over my mom’s shoulder to check on when dinner would be ready.

Her dumplings are my ultimate comfort food; they remind me that although the bond to my Chinese culture may be weak at times, I am keeping it alive by spending that time with my parents and learning about their experiences. Soon, I’ll be back in my grandparents’ apartment in Shanghai, sharing my latest college stories, hearing about the latest family gossip, and making dumplings with them, too. 19