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So, this is completely spontaneous…My finesse and enthusiasm in this narration is inspiring, I know. Try not to enter me into the next Food Network Star. 😉 Hopefully, you now have some idea of how to fix fried rice…and how I sound when I’m nervous!
“Scramble it up. Just like that!”
I really said that. Wow.
Enjoy!!
Today is Chinese New Year‘s Eve. With no Chinese family members nearby, I’ve not alway been diligent to include traditional Chinese celebrations within our family culture. All Chinese holidays are strongly based on extended family and family tradition…and for me, out here in the Southwest with no local immediate or extended Chinese family, sometimes it’s not been worth the effort, or the trip to the local Asian market on the other end of town. Nevertheless, I did, this year. I took my five oldest boys and we came home with all this. Any guesses as to what we are having for dinner?
The older my kids get, the more I am valuing the preservation and the passing on of our family’s version of my Chinese heritage. It’s a privilege to speak Mandarin, to have grown up within two cultures, and to know a thing or two about making a mean stirfry.
Unlike traditional Chinese New Year celebrations, my house has not been cleaned from stem to stern–in fact, I am recovering from two of the most chaotic and messy weeks we’ve had recently around here. I’m not cooking the traditional “lucky” foods, but am opting for the fun experience of hot pot. There will be red envelopes, hot tea, some paper lanterns, and homemade almond cookies.
Here’s my disclaimer: I’m fully Chinese, but I did not grow up making almond cookies…which is to say, I only ate almond cookies at Chinese restaurants, and most of the time, they were underwhelming at best. However, I love the idea of an almond cookie and I’m strongly motivated to involve my kids in any cooking process.
And so, I put together the simplest Chinese almond cookie recipe I could muster that doesn’t include almond flour or almond meal and doesn’t require lard.
Why? Well, mostly because I don’t usually have those ingredients on hand, and keeping it simple is where I’m at these days. Oh, and I’ve also chosen to make these cookies with whole wheat flour…again, because that’s what I use at home and because I’d like to have at least one redeeming quality to a buttery cookie.
These are not crunchy or yellow. They are slightly chewy and golden brown. I don’t blanch my almonds or sliver them. I keep it simple, folks. And, lastly…this might be one of my favorite cookies to make with the littlest littles.
Because, after all, they are the reason I’m making the effort to celebrate good ol’ 4712, the Year of the Horse.
When we decided to take all six of the boys on a plane to San Francisco in order to celebrate my grandparents’ joint 95th birthdays, my heart was to introduce them to the heritage they’ve been given…and to establish the legacy we will choose to leave as a family. It was likely the boys’ last chance to meet and spend time with their last remaining great grandparents.
When we decided to take all six of the boys on a plane to San Francisco in order to celebrate my grandparents’ joint 95th birthdays, my heart was to introduce them to the heritage they’ve been given…and to establish the legacy we will choose to leave as a family. It was likely the boys’ last chance to meet and spend time with their last remaining great grandparents.
It had been five years since I’d seen my grandparents, and they had aged so much. I cried happy tears to have these memorable moments with them, but honestly, there were some regretful ones too...tears over the time lost due to distance, language barriers, and family fissures.
There are so many stories my kids and I will never know about them, because sometimes it’s not just the language of the tongue that is standing in the way of communicating, but the language of the heart…
…and so I pulled out my iPhone and captured 34 minutes of interview time with them. It was everything I hoped for, catching their voice and thoughts digitally…and yet, so far short of what it could have been. I think we assume that the heart softens and the bitter memories fade when one is old and approaching the end. But, that simply isn’t always so…
…and it reminds me of what Randy Alcorn has said:
If your treasure is in heaven, then with every day that passes, you are moving closer to your treasure. If your treasure is here on earth, every day is sadness as you move further away from what is most valuable to you.
I asked about their childhood…about how they met…and what they would tell their younger selves…
And some of their responses were surprising to me. I wasn’t prepared for the lack of joy that accompanied their responses. I pictured a beautiful collection of wise words and fun untold stories. But what I have recorded are memories of regret, pride, and what could have been. They were not answers I’d like to give at the sunset of my life, but they served to remind me that the Lord is at work to heal and bring fruit to future generations as HIS name is honored and shame and culture no longer serves as gods in our family…
I left the voice recorder running while I took a deep breath and spoke words of truth to my 95 year old grandparents…words that reflect a life transformed by the hope of the Gospel; a life not bound by culture, guilt, and self-worth.
At 38, I have a fraction of their life experience and life lessons, but know the redeeming love of Christ exponentially deeper and greater. That is hope indeed.
My grandparents’ words are not the end of the story. Jesus’ words through the testimony of our lives redeemed IS. And our 34 minutes included those words of home and gratitude…and my grandparents’ subtle acknowledgement of that hope. I pray that acknowledgment would bear fruit in these remaining years of their lives.
Christ came for the ugliest of all family histories. In fact, he so stood for redeeming the dysfunctional family that he chose to use the most colorful genealogies to accomplish his good will in redemption.
Every generation in every family knows heartache and brokenness. My family is not all that different from yours. You have your stories…and your untold stories.
But, God….
I love those two words.
…but, God…he redeems families, and is turning what was ALL ABOUT THE PAST to becoming ALL ABOUT WHAT IS TO COME.
And, therein, lies the hope for every family. Every war-torn family marked by strife, hurt, shame, loss, and unbecoming secrets. Because of the cross, change can happen in YOUR generation. He is our only hope.
Today, I’m joining in–for the first time—at Five Minute Friday over at Lisa-Jo Baker’s blog. The rules: Write for five minutes on the prompt given. No editing, no over thinking, no backtracking.
This week’s prompt (by guest host, Ann Voskamp):
Go:
I stepped foot on the Eastern shores of the United States at three years old with no understanding of the new language, no Cabbage Patch doll, no home, no friends, and no English name. I had no idea that I didn’t belong until I understood the universal language of mockery, embarrassment, and rejection. I so wanted to feel belonging, so I became a little expert in dressing like others, speaking like others, and having what others had. And, the funny thing about belonging–at 3 or at 33–is that you feel that you belong when others treat you…like family. But family doesn’t extend your membership based on how current your clothes are or how similar your tastes. Family hems you in because they’ve chosen to. They’ve committed to loving, committed to forgiving, committed to accepting, committed to belonging.
And there is no belonging, like belonging to Christ– to the Family where we are welcome and chosen. I may be tempted to look the part, speak convincingly, or possess what others might possess in faith, but that proves–again and again–to add nothing to my place of belonging at the table. I’m loved and welcomed because my Father is hospitable and generous with all that his Kingdom offers…in forgiveness, in acceptance. There’s no vying for belonging here…the Redeemed are nothing less…than family.
Stop.
Have a lovely weekend, friends. May you remember once again the great riches that are yours in Christ this weekend…simply because he’s chosen to draw close and to make all that is his, yours. You belong to him; you belong.
“Aristotle says that the aim of education is to make the pupil like and dislike what he ought.” -C.S. Lewis
Number 2 is a budding artist. All the boys have shown love and desire for art, but my almost 9 year old is the one who is the most enamored with painting and producing beautiful work. He asked for a Chinese calligraphy set at Christmastime and saved it for my mom’s visit this last week.
My boys are eager to soak up their Chinese heritage, especially because they have such little exposure to it here in the Southwest, with no Chinese family nearby. It’s sweet to see their responses to Chinese calligraphy, dim sum, hot pot, Chinese holidays, the language and the culture. They love to listen to tales of my childhood as a new immigrant to the states–of how I took fried rice in plastic yogurt containers while peers packed bologna and cheese sandwiches. I tell them of how all the kids would laugh at me in the lunchroom, wincing at what they thought was “gross” and strange. And, of course, those same kids became adults who loved Chinese takeout, no doubt. So much is skewed through the immature eyes of childhood, and so often what we don’t understand becomes what we miss in opportunities. I’m thankful that perhaps, for my boys, it will not pass them by.
My family immigrated from Taiwan to the United States when I was three years old. My parents started a life from scratch, with hardly any English under their belts. I learned quickly, but really didn’t converse fluently until the first grade. Moving to New Mexico furthered the culture shock. My parents did not have much use for tacos, pinto beans, and enchiladas. They were homesick for jiaozi, congee shops, and jian bing–an egg and flour savory pancake sprinkled with chopped green onions. It’s more like a crepe, really. A savory breakfast crepe. Troy and I ate one hot off the griddle at the base of the Great Wall of China. (That may have been the most delicious thing I ate that entire summer. I digress.)
My parents have never made a trip back to Taiwan. The closest thing to jian bing was the making of a breakfast quesadilla with flour tortillas. Chinese folks in New Mexico — they were resourceful. Cultures have common denominators in food and family. Different ingredients and flavors, but common vehicles and values around the table. Homesickness can be the start of new traditions; it’s why I make breakfast quesadillas for my family today. My mom and dad wouldn’t have added the shredded cheese or bits of ham. You may be the sort that adds swiss and mushrooms.
Reinventing themselves, their tastebuds, and dreaming new dreams for their future was not just resourceful; it was brave. I’m understanding that more and more, as we raise a family that chooses some of one culture and some of another. We are seeking to make a recipe for family that is uniquely our own. You’ve gotta make it your own before you can call it home.
…is through a Chinese hole in the wall.
My six guys took me out for Chinese for Mother’s Day. We so rarely go out for Chinese because it can be quite expensive. The Preacher claims that it’s because he prefers my Chinese cooking. Either way, going out to a Chinese restaurant is a treat. The Preacher took me to our favorite spot–one that lacks in ambience (often the best indicator of fantastic fare), but serves up the real deal. This little spot offers a menu in English, but has a wall lined with sheets of paper announcing offerings in Mandarin. Better Chinese could’ve only been had if I was eating with my mom in sunny California. But this year, being with my sweet brood of boys with family style cooking…was home enough for me. This is what I order when I’m not cooking:
Dumplings (Jiaozi) with Chinese Chives
(You can read about our family’s tradition making jiaozi here.)
Sesame Chicken (the boys’ favorite)
Stir-fried Sweet Potato Leaves in Garlic
Salt and Pepper Calamari
Szechuan Eggplant in Garlic Sauce
Me, sated and happy, on very little sleep.
Have a lovely Monday, friends!
Right now, a few hours from where we live, there is a little cabin that sits in the high country. Right outside the front door of this quaint abode, the river is presently roaring, the flowers are in full bloom, and there is lush foliage providing a canopy of shade over a lazy hammock that sways between two tall pines. The cabin sits quietly today; yesterday, it’s walls were bursting with the sounds of little boys laughing and shooting their toy rifles. Yesterday, the boys and the men were down the river, fishing and breathing in deeply the mountain air. Yesterday, the campfire right outside smoldered while a mother and her only daughter exchanged previously unspoken words and stories. The wheat was separated from the chaff, and new beginnings were created around the glowing embers. All that mattered returned with us from the high country. Today, we’re back home and my parents are on a plane that will take them a few states away again. What a privilege it is to experience the seasons so lushly displayed in God’s handiwork in nature…and his handiwork in family all the more.
“What do people in China eat?”
“Why does your dress open on both sides like that?”
“There are people buried in the Great Wall of China!”
“Why does their language go up and down?”
“They don’t use the alphabet?”
These are a few of the comments and questions asked by Number 2’s kindergarten class yesterday when I came as a special guest during their study of the Chinese culture. I wore my traditional dress in Chinese brocade, and taught them a song in Mandarin. It’s amazing how accurately children can pronunciate. Mandarin is like singing. That’s why it goes up and down. And kids are good at singing!
They asked for an example of how a word, spoken with different tones, could mean different things. Chicken is a good example, I explained. Chicken is first tone. to mail something is fourth tone. “You wouldn’t want to say we’re eating our mail for dinner!” Chuckle, giggle, squeal. As my gifting is more with college age, rather than little ones, I attempted to be playful and not academic. I was laughing at some of my animations: 1st tone-high on my tip toes, 2nd tone (climbing a mountain), 3rd tone (riding an elevator), 4th tone (pirate)…all in my silky dress with openings on both sides.
They did have one last question:
“Did you bring us sweet and sour chicken?”
I didn’t have the heart to tell them that Chinese people don’t usually eat sweet and sour chicken!
There seems to be a special meal in every culture (and every family) that invites all hands on deck and all hearts open to meaningful conversation amidst the preparation. For the Chinese side of our family, laughter and unity is shared around the making of jiaozi (known as gyoza in Japan and mandu in Korea), or Chinese dumplings. You may recognize its mainstream, pan-fried alias, the potsticker.
Chinese families gather around the kitchen table at New Year or birthdays to participate in the lovingly laborious task of making jiaozi from scratch. My parents taught me to cook using no measurements excepts that of memory, taste, and intuition; but, our recipe looked something like this one here. Growing up, my brother and I would watch in amazement as the grownups swiftly rolled out the dough with one hand while deftly spinning the the disks of dough with the other hand, sculpting perfect circles of jiaozi skins. The finely chopped cabbage, scallions, ginger, and pork would form the filling that is then added to the center of each skin. Finally, with artistry, each dumpling is crafted into a folded crescent, plump and delicate. From there, batches are steamed, boiled or pan-fried, and offered hot with soy-vinegar-garlic-red chili dipping sauce. I always add a bit of brown sugar and sesame oil to my sauce as well.
Our family enjoyed a reunion around the island this past weekend during a rare, but special visit from my out-of-state parents. My brother commented that it had been years since we’d done this together as a family. And now, as he takes his post as agile skin-roller, and I as adept sculptor, we find ourselves in a circle of childhood banter once again, skimming only the best of our family history for the next generation’s gathering in the kitchen.
Grace Laced 
