Posts in Tradition
Practice makes perfect red bean baos (Recipe)

A good cook can as easily make a crummy cake as a good lover can screw up a relationship. Cooking skills don't necessarily carry over into the realm of baking.  And sometimes a sexy cuddle should stay exactly that, no strings attached.

In cooking, there’s more room for error. Anyone with enough enthusiasm, a decent palate, maybe a glass of wine or a shot of mezcal, can dive into cooking with wild abandon and end up with something delicious. An olive oil-finish, some squirts of lemon, a sprinkle of Maldon sea salt can go a long way to save a dish. 

Baking on the other hand is a science. There’s just no rushing through the chemistry and math that transform wet brown batter into an irresistible chocolate soufflé. At restaurants, I’ll often hear friends scoff at their food and say, “I can make this at home! Psssh.” But I’ve never heard anyone tell me that she or he is going to recreate the chocolate babka from Breads Bakery. That’s because baking requires a tremendous amount of studying and practicing. And humility. And an acceptance that the first try if far from being the last. But back to that earlier analogy: Baking, like a relationship, takes work. 

I suck at baking. Once, I attempted to make croissants from scratch. For three days, I’d jump out of bed at 5:30 A.M., salivating as I rolled and folded the laminated dough, dreaming of the warm, buttery crescents. By day four, it was time to bake the croissants. This was my first attempt, but I was already expecting Parisian patisserie-level perfection. But the croissants came out cakey and dense. Zero flakiness. They were good enough to be biscuits but not croissants.  Hadn’t I followed directions? Or measured the flour correctly? Wasn’t I careful with the dough, like a first-time mom is with her newborn? I couldn’t pinpoint the problem, not with only one notch on my belt. Anything could have contributed to my dough’s undoing, like inferior ingredients to the uncalibrated oven to Mercury stuck in retrograde. 

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In Love With Red Bean Paste (Recipe)

Chinese legend has it that there was once a woman who, while mourning her deceased husband, cried tears of blood. Her cattle farmer husband had gone off to fight a war. Every day and night while he was away, the woman waited patiently for him and then took her waiting to a mountain top where she’d stare deep into the horizon for her beloved’s return. But surprise, surprise–he never returned. Her optimism regressed into soul-crushing sadness. And with no Netflix, burritos, or ice cream to ease the heartbreak, she just sat on the mountain and cried. The tears she continued to shed turned into blood and then mysteriously transformed into little tiny red beans, readying the earth with seeds to sprout the first ever red bean tree. 

This myth and iterations of it have come to symbolize a kind of punishing but enduring love and unwavering devotion. Because of this, it’s become customary to eat red bean soup at Chinese weddings, as if auspicious foods could steer someone with a roving eye away from committing adultery. But I love red bean soup, so any excuse to eat it, I’ll take it.

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Surprise is a black sesame ball explosion (Recipe)

Life is full of surprises. Humans, inevitably, are too. 

People never fail to surprise or shock me. In good ways or ways no amount of memory loss will ever allow me to forget. Like the time in 8th grade when I learned - on a three-way call no less - that my secretboyfriendforevercrush was going to the school dance with one of my good female friends. Betrayed and so obviously dissed, I wondered how I’d ever trust people - or myself - again. 

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A Recipe for the New Year (Recipe)

Last night was Chinese New Years, so my friends and I made our way to a Chinese restaurant in Manhattan to hear the clamor of other Chinese people and the clinking of china. Like the obedient Chinese kids we are, we ordered all of the auspicious foods traditionally eaten during New Years. Our table overflowed with noodles (long life), fish (luck and prosperity), chicken (family coming together), oranges (wealth), dumplings (fortune), and more. We're gonna be rich, bitch! 

This is the fifth year that I’ve celebrated Chinese New Year without my family. so I've been trying to recreate family dinners – minus the home-cooked dishes and sadly, minus Po-Po.

If I had gone home this year, however, things would have been a little different. First of all, I’m too old to collect red envelopes filled with cash from my elders. As a gainfully employed 30-year-old, I AM one of the elders. I would have jealously side-eyed my niece as she received hers. After all, those little red envelopes are a rich part of Chinese tradition, and they do so much to validate one’s youth and naiveté. 

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Choices (Thoughts)

My grandparents have been married for over 70 years. Technically, my grandpa (or Gong-Gong) passed away about 24 years ago, but they’re still married. I’ve encouraged her to hit up the geriatric dating scene. But, “Gong-Gong and I will reunite in the after life,” Po-Po insists. Theirs was true love. Not the foggy-brained, dewy eyed, passionate kind of love that dissolves into deceitful, late night Tinder rabbit holes, but a partnership that’s weathered life’s unexpected tragedies. Shortly after Gong-Gong’s death, I awoke to Po-Po weeping in the corner of her bedroom. I felt it necessary to console her as best as a six year old possibly could. By asking a ton of questions. “What’s wrong, Po-Po?” I asked.

“Nothing. I’m just sad. But it’ll be ok,” Po-Po responded, trying to stifle her tears. The sun was rising and a soft glow crept through the window blinds. Her eyes looked so heartbreakingly sad. 

But I obnoxiously pressed on. “What are you thinking about?”

“Oh, just about your Gong-Gong. I’m thinking about how we had no choice but to leave our families in China during the war. Just the two of us in Taiwan. He was the only family I had.” 

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American-ish Chinese-ish (Recipe)

While I was born in the U.S., my upbringing was anything but typical American. But what does it mean to be a typical American anyway? Immihelp.com says that, “People from all over the world have immigrated to the United States. Therefore, it is very difficult to define a typical American, as there is no such thing. However, a majority of the current Americans are of European descent; therefore, the description below is primarily with that in mind.” 

This explains why sitcoms, movies, and books I grew up with in the mid ‘80s and ‘90s reverberated with cultural themes that I had a hard time identifying with. There’s a memorable scene from Full House that confused the shit out of me when I was ten years old. 

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Bathtub brewing

Last year I rushed home to Los Angeles on the last day of Coachella weekend—missing the hologram Tupac resurrection—for a beginner’s course in making Chinese wine brew aka fermented sweet rice aka 甜酒釀 (tian jiu niang). The instructor for this course was none other than Po-Po, who insists on making everything from scratch and refuses to substitute even the most insignificant amount of an ingredient with its store-bought counterpart. Since fermented sweet rice has a supporting role in many of her dishes, it’s become an essential DIY project and a tradition she’s generously passed onto me. 

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