I grew up in that kitchen, his
kitchen, the smallest room in the house, darkened by smoke and grease. In that
confined space, miscellaneous items piled high to the ceiling. A single bulb on
the ceiling illuminates the world below. Mixtures of hot pepper, cilantro, and
soy sauce soaked deep into its walls.
It was my favorite room to visit as a child. I, not quite as tall as the
marble counter, could only see the edge of the clutter of knives, bowls, and
freshly chopped garlic and ginger. It was his clutter; this was Grandpa’s
place.
To
us outsiders, it was a room of a hundred secrets. A heavy curtain disconnected
the kitchen from the dining room. On a breezy day, only the smallest sliver of
the stove was visible to me. When he cooked, the magic of the room would leak
outside: pungent fresh water eel, salted pork, pickled cabbage, and steamed
ginger prawns… I, completely under his spell, would pace outside the curtain,
lapping up drool as I went. I’ve longed to become the next carrier of family
recipes, longed to learn the secret of his culinary abilities, dating back to
generations ago.
To
know the depth of his knowledge is to know the wisdom in his eyes, dexterity of
his hands, and the meticulousness of each drop of oil and sprinkle of salt.
Everyone cooks in the family; none cook quite like Grandpa. The New Years I
turned 5, Grandpa started the sacred and long awaited ritual of secret passing.
I was to make meatballs that night. Molding chopped meat into balls and
dropping them into a deep wok of boiling oil was to be my induction. After
giving me instructions, Grandpa left. Heavy snow was falling outside the window
against the thickest darkness, condensing a layer of opaque pearls across the
glossy surface of the window. Inside the kitchen, however, was uncomfortably
warm. I sat, motionless, on the chair against the marble counter, staring
hopelessly into the bowl of raw meat. Hot steam filled my shirt pockets,
squeezing between my naked toes. I knew that it wouldn’t be easy. This was a
test of my allegiance, courage, and perseverance. I was five and about to fail.
I’ll
never forget that night, the first night I was allowed to cook in that kitchen,
to touch the instruments he used countless times in preparing family feast
during festive occasions. That night, I was let in on the secret, the hundred
secrets of our family. In a traditional Chinese home, the kitchen is located in
the center of front of the house. By giving this position to the kitchen, the
family hopes that food, above all else, has the ability to unite family members
no matter how long the separation or how far the distance. That night, I was
given the torch; I became the next recipient of the family hope. It was the
same hope, of our ancestors, which brought the family together during times of
celebration and disaster. It was a hope that transcended time, people, and
kitchens. The secret was passed that day, along with it, the family traditions,
history, and stories. It was not to die with Grandpa but live through me and
past me onto the link in the family line. It was a great responsibility of
course, carrying the family secret, and I was ready and eager to accept it.
I
dream for myself. I dream often of that kitchen, generations of Qian’s blood,
their love for food, their memories, desires, ambitions, worries, flowing through me. I really miss home...a tiny bit hungry, but a whole lot of longing.
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