Day 8 - 10/02/19 Daily Writing Prompt: “Edible Memories” Assignment: Today I'm going to have you access your memories through memories of food. Its preparation. Its enjoyment--or the opposite. Serving it, or being served it. The choice is up to you. All of us have "edible memories."
My family makes jiaozi, chinese dumplings, together. When I was little, I would watch my parents make the jiaozi, just the two of them. My dad would soak the greens and then massage them with salt, grind the meat, and then mix up the filling. The entire kitchen would fill with the scent of garlic and white pepper. He would carefully mix the dough, combining flour and water, knead it, and then roll it into a long snake. Then, his trusty chef’s knife gleaming, he’d expertly slice the snake into uniform chunks before flattening them out with his palm, and then roll them out into perfect rounds with his rolling pin. My mother would then grab one of these dough disks, add a wad of the prepared filling, and then quickly fold and shape the dough into the perfect jiaozi shape. I would watch this whole procedure with wonder, eyes wide with anticipation and hunger.
As I got older, I was allowed to help my mom with the jiaozi wrapping. There were now two sets of chopsticks jutting out of the bowl of filling, one set for me, one set for my mom. I remember carefully cradling a round of the soft dough in my hands. After placing a ball of filling in the middle of my dough, my mom then directed me how to wrap a jiaozi. Make a taco fold, join the edges in the middle, and squeeze. Then, with a crimping motion, make the little folds on each side, fusing the dough edges together along the way. I quickly learned that selecting the right amount of filling from the bowl is an art in itself – grab too large a chunk of filling, and when you try to close the dough around it, it comes squishing out and prevents the dough from sealing. Too little, and the dumpling will look sadly deflated, like a mylar balloon half a month after the birthday celebration has ended. But when you scoop out just the right amount of filling the jiaozi looks plump and balanced, and rests happily upright.
Before long, we would have rows and rows of wrapped jiaozi, standing at attention like little dumpling soldiers. Half were destined for pan frying, half for boiling. All would end up in our waiting tummies. My brother would occasionally join us in the jiaozi wrapping. I have a particularly fond memory of the four of us making jiaozi together a few years ago, while listening to ABBA (a rare music choice that all four of us could agree on) and dancing around the kitchen.