In my American kitchen, I am neurotically controlling. My blood pressure rises if a friend so much as helps herself to a bowl or tries to set the table. I can barely tolerate the way John loads the dishwasher. But time and time again, I shrug my shoulders and relinquish my Chinese kitchen.
A recent jiaozi (dumpling) party was by no means our first. It was, however, the first time I had invited a collection of my alpha-female friends, not just one. Many Americans think of Asian women as demure butterflies, and there probably are women like that in Kunming, but they are not my friends. My closest friends, especially the middle-aged ones, are women who struggled to enter college at a time when damned few Chinese men, never mind women, attended universities. Then they got master's degrees to top it off. Not only are they smart and persevering, but each one not so secretly believes she is the best cook in China.
I decided to fill the dumplings with leeks and eggs; it's a common filling around here, but not one I'd ever made myself. How difficult could it be? My first mistake occurred at the market. I knew the name of the vegetable I wanted to buy--jiu cai--but Chinese leeks don't look like American leeks, so I wasn't entirely sure which bunch of greens to buy. I asked one of my favorite vendors if this bunch was jiu cai. She agreed that it was and I bought it. Then my doubts started to mount. Had I bought enough? Hours later, I called ZXY to come take a look and tell me if there was enough. She took one look and burst out laughing. "That isn't jiu cai, that's qing suan!" So, off we went to the market to buy jui cai.
That night, ZXY arrived a little early in order to make her special cucumber salad. I had just finished chopping the jiu cai and was about to fry it. "You don't fry it," she said, looking askance at the heating wok. "Just scramble the eggs." But I got busy answering the door as more people arrived and egg preparation fell to ZXY. Meanwhile, another friend, SCL, started making *her* special cucumber salad in the kitchen as well. When I handed ZXY the whisk, she looked as bewildered as if I'd handed her a shovel for the job. "I just use chopsticks to beat the eggs," she said.
But LXM, who had just arrived, was eager to demonstrate her familiarity with western implements. "I can do that," she said, confidently taking the whisk and big bowl of eggs. After a few strokes, she decided that a pair of chopsticks did indeed work better. We tossed the whisk in the sink.
With eggs satisfactorily chopstick-whipped, it was time to fry them. I thought I would be able to do that, but LXM turned on the stove, opened the bottle of oil and said, "I hope you won't be nervous when you see how much oil I use." Nervous wasn't the right word. Shocked might be. I am not exaggerating when I say she poured at least a cup and a half of oil into the wok. I had no idea you could deep fry scrambled eggs.
While that was going on, ZXY was using the flat side of a cleaver to whack the cucumber with a vengeance. "It's a good thing your husband never watched you do that before you got married," said John, "or he would have been frightened away." SCL was slicing her cucumber into delicately think ovals. Then Pi Ying arrived, just in time to inform LXM that the eggs were probably cooked enough. ZXY, LXM, and SCL took turns mincing the scrambled eggs, each demonstrating her best technique--all of which were better than mine.
Finally, seven of us sat down in the living room to wrap the jiaozi. Northern Chinese, who are supposedly the most adept at making dumplings, pinch the sides of the wrapper together swiftly and almost carelessly. We only had one Northerner present. Southerners, all too aware that they were not born to this task, are slower and more artful. Northern or Southern, I'm happy to eat almost any dumpling, but I have to say that ones made by Southern hands do appear more attractive. Fortunately, John and I can hold our own when it comes to dumpling wrapping and John's, in particular, drew praise.
By this time, I knew full well that even if I were the hostess, I would not be entrusted to cook the jiaozi. ZXY and LXM commanded the kitchen, boiling the dumplings and making the dipping sauce. I decided to leave well enough alone and just carried bowls and chopsticks into the living room, where we would eat. John washed the steadily mounting pile of dirty implements.
Have you noticed the absence of any men at this dinner besides John? This characterizes our Chinese social life. Among the ten women with whom I socialize most, five are living here without husbands; some are divorced or single, but most have husbands are living in another province. In many cases, the separation is not just a short term obstacle. One friend's husband has lived two provinces away for all three years of their marriage. When I asked if she thought they would be living together any time soon, she neutrally replied, "Probably not." Even among my friends who live with their husbands, socializing as a couple seems rare. We have heard from students that our Chinese colleagues say John and I are "very romantic" because we do things together! I have only one friend who regularly includes her husband, and I think it is no accident that at least in our eyes, they appear to be the most happily married Chinese couple we know. On the other hand, bringing one's child to what I perceive as an adult gathering is commonplace.
At a Chinese dinner, washing dishes seems be the job of the youngest pair of people present, so naturally, Pi Ying and SCL volunteered for the task. We insisted John could do it. Their offer was not just a polite gesture; we had to physically bar them from the kitchen. Finally they agreed to peel and slice fruit for dessert.
At the end, we sat around the coffee table as piles of orange and pomelo rinds and sunflower seed shells grew. LXM's daughter leaned affectionately against her mother and SCL companionably rested her hand on Pi Ying's thigh, sometimes dropping her head onto Pi's shoulder. Everyone, now full, seemed to slope onto the person beside her. I think we all were happy.
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