When I love someone, I take them to my favorite restaurants serving hot pot with niu bai ye, eggplant in rich garlic yu xiang sauce, steamed xiao long bao, pan-fried sheng jian bao with crispy bottoms and fluffy wrappers topped with sesame seeds, so I can share the best food in the world, other than my mama’s cooking of course in Shanghai, which I miss, from her stir-fried bok choy to fish tofu soup. For Thanksgiving, I looked up recipes for ma po tofu, ordered the savory and spicy fermented bean paste called dou ban jiang, heated my wok, threw in Sichuan peppercorns, ground pork, bean paste, silken tofu, cornstarch mixture, stirred the tofu squares until coated in a red sauce, and finally sprinkled in fresh green scallions — a dish that stood out on the dinner table from rest of the menu of roasted turkey, mashed potatoes, honey glazed ham, and pumpkin pie — everyone asked, “what is that tingly sauce?” and loaded their plates with second servings until it was gone, making me proud like that time when I replicated the flavors of sweet and sour ribs recalled from past life in China, or the lonely semester in college when I cheered myself up with Cantonese shrimp and egg stir fry, but no matter how many times my friends and I wrap homemade dumplings, they never taste as good as the ones I crafted with my parents filled with celery and pork, or red spinach and tofu, dumplings we patiently shaped in our hands while watching TV, laughing and chatting in our small two-bedroom apartment, where my nainai used to cook me crispy golden French fries that tasted like paradise on hot summer days, and back then it didn’t occur to me that I should talk to her more, write down stories she told before they are lost, and ask about the recipe for her braised pork belly with bamboo shoots, my forever favorite.
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