I practice curling my tongue, enunciating, moving my mouth in unfamiliar directions. The sounds of the spoken language ring true—I grew up listening to my mother tell me Chinese folktales of a woman stranded on the moon for infinity, or hovering above my shoulder to reprimand me for my poorly drawn characters. But only now do I understand the parental regret of not taking my mother tongue seriously.
Curled up in a small corner of the library, I whisper to the Chinese characters in front of me, sounding them out like I had through numerous childhood lessons. As I scan a passage, recalling sitting at the kitchen table with my mother, reading over the text for the week, I come across the name of a famous poet I once learned about: Su DongPo. Born during one of the many successive dynasties of Imperial China, I slowly read about his history, carefully attempting not to drag out any unneeded pauses. Turning to Chinese cuisine, I learn that there is a dish named after him: 东坡肉 (dōng pō ròu). My eyes glaze over the image in the book, a tender block of slow-stewed pork, and my mouth pleads for a taste.
Just like that, my attention shifts as I scour the internet for recipes. Before long, I’m calling my mother, first connecting with her over our Chinese lessons done on the used brown kitchen table, then inquiring about the dish.
I tell her there’s nostalgia even in the name. Although I’ve never tasted it, it lingers in my mouth the more I speak.
I come home the weekend after and for once, the aching, connective string of tension running alongside the bottom of my arms loosens. The tightness around the backside of my legs subsides. In bed, I turn onto my right side, letting the sun shine itself on my face. Eyes open, the smell hits me as I register both the warmth of the rare winter sun and the sweet smell rising from the kitchen.
The renewed lightness in the soles of my feet brings me bounding down the two flights of stairs. Halfway down, I call to my mother. I hear only a murmur of acknowledgement before rounding the corner. Her back is to me, an upward flowing signal of smoke rises from the stovetop.
Only when I walk closer, nearly behind her, does she turn around.
For a second, my breath catches.
My mother, blessed in the filtering glaze of the late morning glisten, stands radiant in front of me. The wrinkles under her eyes subside in the light; her throat glistens with sweat. It’s the way her mouth curves upward, a sight I’ve missed, that stops me. My mother looks like a child, standing inches shorter below me, wrapping her arms around my waist, swinging side to side.
I’ve missed you, 宝贝 (bǎo bèi).
I smell the scent on her and peer over her shoulder. On the countertop are scattered materials: the pork, cut into six even square pieces, the fine cosmic white string, resembling the texture of a toothpick, and various spices… I spot the anise star, a smell I despised growing up, yet appreciate now when simmered with rich, deep cuts of meat that fade into a nutty taste.
When did you start making this?
Sit down, she says, nudging me to the kitchen table. Be gentle to your mother, she scolds me. I’m trying something new.
I feel myself becoming fuller in color. Hundreds of miles away at school, I had been deprived of such rich flavors. The food I often ate at home, strong in spice and contrast, is the kind that rocks me to sleep instantly. The older I grew, the more mature I thought I became. I began turning to foods I could control—away from the warm foods my mother reveled in making.
My mother’s presence is always known, loud among my quiet family of four. Yet, as I watch her, back curved over the kitchen counter, lean fingers moving from one end to another, ingredients picked up and placed back down all within seconds with an agility I haven’t seen in so long, my mother could have disappeared, blending right into the kitchen counter.
Looking at the color of the meat, the remnant smell of charred pork on the stainless steel pan, the aroma mixes with the marinade she’s combined and placed to the side. She takes each thick cut of finely cubed pork and delicately, so as not to get it on her arms, ties each piece with a strand of string, bringing together the loose ends at the top.
Sensing my question, she answers without turning: When the pork stews for that long, it’s easy for the pork to tender to the point of falling apart.
The string ties it all together, keeping not only the physical pieces of the meat together, but also the importance of the flavor, the juiciness.
She urges me again to stay put as she meanders over to watch the little pot. The youth flushes in and out of my mother’s skin. The redness of her cheeks I spotted earlier dims down as she sits across from me now at the kitchen table, asking me how my weeks away have been. I answer with no more than a shrug; the worries of before, the constant anticipation of something new, have left me with the sudden sturdiness of home.
Her eyes, filled with age, stare down at me once again, and I feel the inquisitiveness bring out the wrinkles that were gone just before. She scans me, from my collarbone, to under eyes that match her own, to hands tangled together.
She reads me knowingly, patting my head before returning back to the stove.
Simmering for over an hour, she turns the heat off, lifting the lid off of the pot. Engaged in a dance, her arms move from one side to another, the smell joining as it travels over to my side of the kitchen. First lifting the meat delicately onto the slightly rounded plate, then carefully dripping a fine amount of excess liquid onto the pork, she brings the dish over, a spoon balanced in her right hand.
What’s placed in front of me is foreign, yet I’ve met this dish before. The taste formulates in my mouth, melting into the side crevices, little pieces stuck in the teeth facing the back. I undo the knot at the top of one of the pieces, the juice tainting my fingers. Wiping them carelessly onto my shirt, I carve the spoon into the pork—
I bring it to my mouth, a nutty aroma turned so full and physical.
The flavor resembles 红烧肉 (hóng shāo ròu), yet it carries a hint of matured bitterness. The flavor is richer, having marinated longer in the broth. The coating, hugging flavors of the marinade stand strong with each chew. The subtle tang from the rice wine contrasts heavily with the browned rock sugar. The soy sauce, which generates the dark, layered brown colors, helps differentiate the fatty layer from the leaner cut. The different textures stand out then melt together in my mouth.
I look back at my mother, expecting her to be taking a bite herself, but, instead, her eyes are trained on me. Her questions surface without words. My mother’s hands are wrapped around her back. I know her right index finger is tracing different characters, a nervous habit she picked up around my age.
Without following clear directions or detailed recipes, she was able to manifest a flavor I had only imagined. Unspoken, her love language is creation—void of too much pestering, mentioning, coming to fruition from simple listening.
I listen now to the sounds inside my head, scouring to come up with words to describe such a dish, a flavor. A sentence flitters to mind, one I had learned in class a few weeks ago, stuck to me, waiting:
