The Eighth Moon

“…Once upon a time, there were ten suns in the sky.  So the Jade Emperor sent for Ho-ji, a hunter; and the brave hunter shot down nine suns.  As his reward, the Jade Emperor gifted Ho-ji a magic elixer.  Ho-ji took this elixir home to share with his wife Chang-E. But by accident, Chang-E took the elixir all by herself and found herself drifting upwards, higher and higher, (holding her pet rabbit no less). By the time Ho-ji realizes this, she had drifted too far for him to reach.  And he watched helplessly as she drifted away to the moon, where she spends the rest of eternity.  But the lovers are able to see each other on the 15th day of the Eight month, when the moon is the roundest and brightest… and so we, too, celebrate this festival, sharing the moon, and sharing mooncakes, with our family, and enjoy the time that we have with one another here on earth.”

This is the story of the Mid-autumn moon festival. So embedded in me, I don’t even remember when I first heard this story, or who told it to me. Growing up in Shanghai as a child, I never quite wondered why it’s a big deal – for each day in childhood lasts an eternity, and though things often change, not having much control over these changes, a child also has little concept for “appreciation.”

Other than the moon cakes of course. That I could appreciate.

Each year, as the weather cools, and grandmother start to sneak in sweaters into the weather rotation, the ornate tin boxes start to appear around. Though the taste of mooncakes is as familiar to me as the memories of the festival, I can’t help but to be intrigued by the boxes. The airtight lid seem to always hold more deliciousness than one can fathom or anticipate. (Ironically as a kid I am almost always a little disappointed by the actual moon cake.)  Soon enough, after dinner, Uncle would declare that it is time that we are obligated to start to get rid of these moon cakes.  A meticulous and stern man, he’d take his pocket knife and pry off the lid. And there in that box lies two stacks of four round mooncakes, glistening a lovely golden brown. My excitement would reach its peak at that precise moment — the moment when Uncle announces the content of each moon cake.

In those days, the tin of moon cakes contains a general mix of flavors — you get a couple of red-bean paste ones, a couple of walnuts and honey, sunflower and lotus seeds, coconut cream. The writings on the mooncake tells you in four characters the main players inside these little pastries. Which is why I get excited when Uncle start announcing the flavors. I hated every one of the flavors except for the red-bean paste, and this is my one chance to announce to the household that I call dibs on them.

There’s usually eight people gathering for dinner at Uncle’s house every evening. Uncle, Aunt, me and Grandmother, and Uncle’s two sons and their wives. Uncle would select a flavor for that evening, and quarter each one precisely, then distribute fairly. And by fairly, I mean he’d give up his red bean paste piece and give it to me. After all, I called dibs.

Some days during moon-cake season, one of my cousins’ wives would arrive pre-dinner giddily, announcing that they’ve stood inline for hours and managed to pick up fresh meat-filled mooncakes from one of Shanghai’s more reknowned pastry shops. And sure enough, there in a brown paper bag, are warm fresh out of the oven miniature pastries. These have a flaky crust, unlike their sweet counterparts with the cake-y crust. And there’s no inscription on those, just a bright eggwash. I know what’s in there — delicious juicy pork filling with shitaki mashrooms.

I used to always fantasize that someone in the household would then say, “oh I don’t want mine, Lynn can have it.” Sadly, no one ever says that, and I had to make do with the fair share, which always seem to disappear before I am satiated. and sometimes, in my excitement, i wolf these delicious little mooncakes down, only to realize that my blind-excitement had drowned out all other sensory feedback. All I know is something wonderful just happened to me, and now it has happened, and it has passed, and is no more.

(It’s a good thing that dinner usually soon follows this unexpected snack, as Grandmother’s cooking usually takes the edge off such a devastating loss.)

In those days, I wondered what it feels like to be separated from one’s family, while totally oblivious that my own parents are struggling to put a new life together in a country on the other side of the world.  My family was in that two room flat with my Uncle, Aunt, and my Grandmother.

And today, the 19th Moon-fest that I am spending overseas, I look to the moon and remember those days with fondness; the days before I learn to comprehend the connotation of “being overseas.”

Yet this story ends happily, as my parents packed their SUV up to drive up the Pacific Coast and made their way up from San Francisco.

“Two boxes of moon cakes!” My mother exclaimed, “Your dad kept on wanting to eat more on the way up here, I was able to keep these in the box, now we can share these.” She handed me the box.

“There’s date paste, there’s coconut cream, lotus seeds and walnuts, and of course your favorite, the red-bean paste.”

I hesitate just a little bit before lifting up the lid, savoriting that moment of anticipation, and happiness.

Citizen Breakfast: Waterlogged Rice in Shanghai

A friend approached me to write about the street food of Shanghai, the city that I spent 7 years of my childhood in, The first thing that came to mind is the ubiquitous “Xiao Long Man Tou”*of course, it’s the street food Shanghai is known for.  But upon sitting down, and with my hands poised over the keyboard, I realized that as delicious as they are, and as much as that indescribable consommé inside those delicate buns have brought me to many orgasmic moans, I can’t quite speak to those just yet, instead, all that fills my mind when I think of Shanghai, is a simple bowl of slurpy waterlogged rice.

Situated at the mouth of the Yangtze River on the Huangpu Tributary, the silt of the river has blessed Shanghai with enough rice to eat year round. “Xi liang,” or “fine staple” as my northern born mother calls it, often teasing my father about his addiction to the crop. Elsewhere in China, the rice is eaten dry, or as porridge/congee. But here, in Shanghai, for breakfast, left over rice from the previous night is served after being brought to a watery boil, with each grain of rice is still intact, with small servings of side dishes.

It really is not that special, just another permutation of the staple. Yet, what made this meal boring also set it in orbit as one of the few constants of my childhood. Having been born to a mother from the North, and a father who is native Shanghai-nese, much of my childhood was spent shuttling between parents who worked in different cities, riding on trains traveling between the various cities: Harbin, Beijing, Nanjing, Hangzhou, and of course, Grandmother’s place – Shanghai.  It was probably not the easiest of days for me, but I don’t really remember. Instead, I rely on my mother’s frequent description of those days. Of all the stories from that time, Mother’s favorites are those “arrival” stories.

Each year, several days before Chinese New Year’s my parents and I, stationed in our respective cities, would return to Grandmother’s Shanghai home.  Logistics were always sketchy at best, but also fairly standard: weeks ahead, my folks would send word by letter to announce our approximate window of arrival – my father from Beijing, and my mother and I from another city.  Then, my grandmother would simply wait for her 6^th son and his wife and kids to show up at her door…

My mother and I always entered the city following hours of cheap hard-seat train rides. Another bumpy bus ride drops us, suitcases in tow, in front of the alley leading up Grandmother’s apartment. Mother would then slowly make her way to our destination, with me, in an oversized red Tibetan-style cotton stuffed jacket, trotting along as toddlers usually do – inconsistently and slowly – in the chilly early morning air.  Sometimes, I’d be too exhausted to walk, and Mother would tell me to stand in place while she dragged the suitcase for a short distance; then she’d come back and carry me to the luggage. In this fashion she would repeat until we slowly make our way down the alley, making one turn then another, to the bottom floor of Grandmother’s building, where she lives on the 4^th floor.

“You liked to sing a lot, so we’d sing our way through those walks, and before long, we’d be there.” My mom would say. “You were really quite an adorable kid back then, not obnoxious like you are now.

“We’d be on the 2^nd floor, and you’d be yelling for your grandmother, ‘Nai-nai! Nai-nai!!’ all excited.  The neighbors who would be up and sweeping the hallways would smile and wonder where this little Northern kid came from. Then they’d recognize you from the previous visit. And if the 2nd floor Granny (as that’s the name she went by) would give you a Big-Rabbit milk candy.

“Next comes my favorite part,” my mother always beams at this point of the story, “Your grandmother is always there to greet us at the head of the stairs after all this ruckus.  ‘You guys are here.’ And there she was, as excited to see us as I am relieved. You’d teeter-totter up to her, and I’d breathe a sigh of relief that we’ve arrived safely.  All of the weariness would leave my body, as excitement fills everybody for the short time we’ll be spending together.

“Your grandmother would then hand me a steaming-hot moist towel – and I’d wipe my face while you run to her with a dumb smile on your face. And she’d take off your jacket, and start washing your dirty little hands and face, and in Shanghai dialect, grandmother would exclaim how big you’ve gotten in the past several months; and you’d tell her all the things you’ve seen on the trip over, making up half of the stuff there on the spot.

“Then, as if by magic, breakfast would be set up on the square dining table – and comfortingly, it was always be the same Shanghai morning fare: oil crullers, fermented bean curd, salted fish, sometimes shrimp paste, and some sweet pickled veggies…. all in their small delicate bowls. And served last would be newly boiled, steamy hot, water-logged rice. I’d settle into that bowl of rice and savor in the salty sides one bite at a time.  The rice soup would send warmth to every part of my body. I’d look over to you, and you’ll just be quietly working on your bowl of rice with your spoon. Completely satisfied, and in total simple contentment, the two of us were, and your grandmother would just be cleaning the kitchen area while we ate. Later I would unpack and give her all the produces I’ve brought with me for New Years, but for now, we just sit, slurp our rice, and settle in….And you know, after these years living overseas, when I think of home, that’s where my mind goes to, that place, that moment.”

My mom would end the story there.

Although I don’t have memories of this homecoming my mother speaks of, somehow I can see it all in my mind’s eye.  The long weary train rides, grimy, the stoic concrete alleys, my red Tibetan jacket my mother had made for me by hand, and the endless staircases going up to her unit…All of these I can see in my head, as if I’m salvaging an old photo from spring cleaning. Blowing off the dust of time, I am transported to that meal, and there I am fed a waterlogged rice.  Slurping contently the rice broth, I indulge expertly the sweet pickles, pungent fermented bean curd, salty fish, and crunchy crullers.

Somewhere in the recess of my subconscious, my grandmother is waiting for me, ready to wash the dirt off my hands and face, happy to do nothing more than serve me warmth and contentment in a bowl of boring, predictable waterlogged rice.

Notes:

* 小笼馒头 – “Small-Steamer Wheat-Buns” (Xiao Long Man Tou)

** 泡飯 – “Waterlogged Rice” (Pao-Fan)