Since I was a young child, our two kitchens always held a special place in my heart. They were where I could find my mother hard at work, preparing dinner for the family. She’d often call for me to courier the freshly cooked dishes to the dining room table, a job I’d happily accept, sneaking bites of food along the way as my form of payment.
My mother would spend most of her time in the xiao chu fang (small kitchen), as we lovingly called it. A converted laundry room, it housed only the essentials – a stove, counter, and sink. Aluminum foil lined the walls, an ingeniously simple way to catch the splattered oil from our daily stir-frying. It was nice having a dedicated kitchen for the high-temp, high-intensity Chinese cooking I grew up eating. Our primary kitchen was consequently spotless, used for the occasional boiling of water or baking of a cake. The small kitchen, though, bore the brunt of the cooking.
The small kitchen. Notice the scallions growing on the windowsill.
Entering the small kitchen required substantial preparation. The transition from hardwood flooring to the oil and grease-stained linoleum was a treacherous one, and necessitated the application of cheap foam slippers too small for my feet. There was a door, poorly installed by my father and me, that didn’t close all the way. A positive side effect, though, was that it allowed the scents from my mother’s fragrant cooking to travel through the rest of the house, whetting my appetite, distracting me from whatever work I was trudging through. Any excuse to procrastinate was appreciated. My love of our kitchen, and the cooking that went on within it, only grew from there.
Some of my fondest memories are of that kitchen. In my elementary school years, I would be playing outside with my neighborhood friends when I would catch a whiff of my mother’s cooking. As a fat kid, I, of course, prioritized dinner over whatever physical activity I was currently participating in, and would quickly run home, empty stomach growling. The scents would get stronger as I got close, and I would smell the usual suspects: garlic, soy sauce, and ginger. Barreling through the garage, I’d open the door to the kitchen and pop my head inside.
“Moooommmmmm, it smells amazing! What’s for dinner?”
At five feet four inches, she wasn’t very tall, but she had a presence in the kitchen that commanded my respect.
I would find my mother hard at work washing vegetables, chopping meat, or tossing a stir-fry in the air. At five feet four inches, she wasn’t very tall, but she had a presence in the kitchen that commanded my respect. She would look away from her cooking for a second to see me, tongue practically hanging out in anticipation. A subtle twinkle in her eye would betray the delight in her otherwise stoic face, as she listed off the night’s menu. It was always at least four plates of food, shared between her, my father, my sister, and me. Two vegetables. One meat. One soup. My mother liked to balance the dishes she made, making sure that her two rapidly growing kids got the proper nutrition they needed. I didn’t realize how spoiled I was until later, when my mother told me that her friends would cook only one, maybe two things for dinner, and would often consume leftovers from the night before (Yao).
A typical dinner at the Lu household. From top left: Duck and Napa cabbage soup, stir-fried green beans with garlic, poached chicken with dipping sauce, stir-fried bamboo shoots, shrimp and egg omelette.
From an early age, it was clear that I shared my mother’s love of food and cuisine (much to my father’s chagrin – he’d rather I spend my time learning math and programming). I’d spend hours by my mother’s side, watching her braise pork ribs in a reduction of soy sauce and sugar. Hongshao paigu (red-cooked pork ribs) was one of my favorite dishes – the pork would practically melt in your mouth, its flavor accentuated by the sweet and salty sauce that clung to the delicate meat. I would down these ribs at an alarmingly fast rate, no doubt contributing to my portly figure.
The topic of food and cooking was one that came up often in conversation, usually over the dinner table. I’d grill my mother on the techniques she used and give suggestions as I deemed necessary. Middle school me did not hold back.
“I like the tomato eggs,” I’d say, making sure to lead with a compliment. “But the tomatoes could’ve been cooked for a little longer. They’re a little too firm and tart.”
My mother would look at me and smile, nodding slightly and taking my advice to heart. She prided herself with raising a son with a “sensitive palette,” as she called it, beaming whenever I was able to detect whatever trace ingredient she added.
Training my sensitive palette from the tender age of two.
“You must’ve gotten that ability from your grandma,” she hypothesized. “Our love of food runs in the family, you know.”
My grandma, like my mother, loves to cook. I rarely see her, since she lives in China. But when I do, she’s usually cooking up a storm in a tiny kitchen barely larger than her. Despite being limited to just a stove, microwave, and toaster oven, she was able to churn out meals with apparent ease, effortlessly preparing over a dozen dishes for dinner. I was endlessly impressed and envious of this ability of hers.
Just as I learned about the importance of food and cooking from my mother, my mother learned the same lessons from my grandma.
Just as I learned about the importance of food and cooking from my mother, my mother learned the same lessons from my grandma. Like me, she would stand in the doorway of my grandma’s kitchen and watch closely as my grandma worked her magic. My mother would tell me stories about how, even in her youth, when China was undergoing political turmoil and food was scarce, my grandma would seek out ways to feed her family well, ensuring they got proper nutrition. In stark contrast to my father’s childhood, where meat was only reserved for special occasions, my mother would have the luxury of eating meat at least once a week.
“We weren’t any richer than your father’s family,” My mother would insist. “But food was such an important part of living, so we prioritized it. Your grandma made sure of that.”
My mother and my grandma bonding over dinner.
My grandma was born and raised in Haimen, a small city in the province of Jiangsu. Haimen (literally Sea Gate) was situated at the mouth of the Yangtze River, which undoubtedly influenced what she ate. But in her early thirties, she moved to the picturesque city of Hangzhou, the capital of Zhejiang Province. Her cooking is therefore inspired by the cuisines of both provinces, Jiangsu and Zhejiang, two of the Eight Great Regional Cuisines of China.
Hangzhou (specifically, the West Lake), where my mother grew up.
High heat (yang) foods, such as garlic and onions are strong, and are often consumed in the winter, to balance out the body’s natural lack of yang during the cold weather.
Chinese travel writer Gavin van Hinsbergh’s online articles on Chinese cooking characterize Jiangsu cuisine as being renowned for its refined and colorful nature. Focused on aromatics rather than spices, Jiangsu food is neither heavy nor overwhelming, and brings out the natural flavor of the ingredients. Food here is also very much medicinal – there’s a great emphasis placed on how different dishes and cooking styles can affect one’s health (Van Hinsbergh, “Jiangsu Cuisine”). All foods can be characterized by a principle best described as “heat.” High heat (yang) foods, such as garlic and onions are strong, and are often consumed in the winter, to balance out the body’s natural lack of yang during the cold weather. Cooling (yin) foods, like melon and cucumbers, work to reduce the body’s intensity during warmer seasons. Jiangsu cuisine emphasizes the use of seasonal ingredients, and conveniently, many yang foods are produced in the winter, and yin foods, in the summer (Van Hinsbergh, “Chinese Medicinal Cuisine”).
Zhejiang cuisine is fairly similar to Jiangsu cuisine due to similarities in location, environment, and wealth. Located along the Eastern coast of China, Zhejiang is known for its seafood, as well as fresh, lightly-cooked vegetables (such as bok choy). Hangzhou, Zhejiang’s capital and the city my mother is from, has a very refined style, and focuses on stir-fries, soups, and seafood with a propensity for using bamboo shoots (Van Hinsbergh, “Zhe Cuisine”).
This fusion of two very similar, yet famously distinct cuisines is very clear in both my grandma’s and mother’s cooking. Drawing inspiration from both regions, the food they create is qingdan (light and minimal), relying on the freshness of the ingredients to carry the flavor of the dish. My grandma, driven by my grandpa’s poor health, also cares very deeply about the health benefits of her food. Respecting the traditional Chinese beliefs, she highlights fresh, in-season ingredients in her cooking, and takes care to balance out dishes as necessary. Summer months would bring donggua tong (wintermelon soup), while colder times would necessitate xuan huanggua (garlic cucumbers). And of course, she can gloriously prepare some of the region’s most famous dishes, like beggar’s chicken – a freshly slaughtered chicken stuffed with chestnuts, roots, and mushrooms, wrapped in clay and baked in an oven (“Beggar’s Chicken”). The taste would be absolutely divine – tender, aromatic chicken infused with the flavors of its stuffing, neatly presented at the center of the table like a Christmas goose. There aren’t many spices needed.
“Why use so many spices when we have access to such wonderful ingredients?” my mother would say, as she added only a bit of salt and scallions to her stir-fry. This ideology undoubtedly influenced my own style of cooking, even as I moved into Western cuisines. Steak? Only needs some salt and pepper. Broccoli? Just add some garlic, no ranch necessary. And why cover up the fluffiness of scrambled eggs with ketchup when you can add a hint of freshness with chopped chives? I embraced the simplicity of my mother and grandma’s cooking, and applied them to my own food even as I branched outside of Chinese cooking.
While I chose to make this pizza in our larger, more comfortable main kitchen, even my Western cooking is influenced by my mother and grandma’s cooking styles. Here, the tomatoes bring flavor to the sauce – made from just tomatoes and salt – instead of additional of herbs and spices.
I don’t cook for myself often. The rigor of MIT has forced me to cut out any extraneous activities, and unfortunately, cooking was on the chopping block. But living in a fraternity means that when I do decide to cook, I have access to an industrial kitchen, fully stocked with spices and seasonings and professional equipment. Stir frying is a joy on our industrial burners, which output three times as much heat as the tiny kitchen my mother is used to. And every time I stand behind the stove, tossing mixtures of meat and vegetables in the air in an attempt to produce the ever elusive “wok hay” (the breath of the wok), I am brought back to my younger years, standing in the doorway of the kitchen, learning from my mother’s cooking, the same way she learned from her mother.
Works Cited
“Beggar’s Chicken: The Legend Behind the Dish.” Four Seasons Hotel Hangzhou at West Lake. 1 Mar 2013. Web. 14 Apr 2016.
“Haimen.” Jiangsu.net. n.d. Web. 16 Apr 2016.
Van Hinsbergh, Gavin. “Chinese Medicinal Cuisine / Food Therapy — Healthy Seasonal Recipes.” China Highlights. 23 Nov 2015. Web. 14 Apr. 2016.
Van Hinsbergh, Gavin. “Jiangu Cuisine — Refined Healthy Gourmet Food.” China Highlights. 24 Mar. 2016. Web. 14 Apr 2016.
Van Hinsbergh, Gavin. “Zhe Cuisine/Zhejiang Cuisine — The Mellow Seafood of Zhejiang.” China Highlights. 24 Mar. 2016. Web. 14 Apr 2016.
Yao, Grace. “My Mother’s Experience with Cooking.” Telephone Interview. 11 Apr 2016.
