There
was no denying a dumpling error. If the meat tumbled out of a poorly
made one as it cooked, Grandmother could always tell who made it
because she had personally assigned each of us a specific folding style
at the onset of our dumpling-making education. In our house, a woman's
folding style identified her as surely as her fingerprints.
3:13For Amy Ma, the Lunar New Year rings in many warm, family traditions, including dumpling-making.
"From
now on, you and only you will fold it in this way," she instructed me
in our Taipei kitchen in 1994, the year I turned 13. That is when I had
reached a skill level worthy of joining the rest of the women -- 10 in
all, from my 80-year-old grandmother, Lu Xiao-fang, to my two
middle-aged aunts, my mother and the six children of my generation --
in the folding of jiao zi, or dumplings, for Chinese New
Year. Before then, I had been relegated to prep work: mixing the meat
filling or cutting the dough and flattening it.
Cousin Mao Mao, the eldest daughter of my grandmother's first son,
had been away for four years at college in the U.S. But with casual
ease, she fashioned her dumplings in the style of the rat, tucking in
the creases and leaving a small tail that pinched together at one end.
Two distinct pleats in a fan-shaped dumpling marked the work of Aunt
Yee, Mao Mao's mother, who had just become a grandmother herself with
the birth of a grandson. A smaller purse-like dumpling with eight folds
toward the center was my mother's. Grandmother's dumplings were the
simplest of the bunch -- flat, crescent-shaped with no creases and a
smooth edge. And as I was the youngest in my generation, she'd thought
it appropriate to make my signature design a quirky variation of her
own, with an added crimping to create a rippling hua bian, or flower edge.
"A pretty little edge, for a pretty little girl," she said.
![[Dumplings photo]](http://s.wsj.net/public/resources/images/AW-AG133_lg_DUM_D_20090129170337.jpg)
Samantha SinWhile dumplings graced
our tables year-round, they were a requisite dish during the Lunar New
Year holidays. The Spring Festival, as it is known in China -- chun jie
-- is arguably the most important celebration of the year: It is a time
to be with family, to visit friends and start life anew -- and eat
dumplings.
The length of observance varies. Today in Taiwan, the national
holiday stretches to nine days -- including two weekends -- with all
businesses and government offices closed. In mainland China, officials
rearrange the working calendar to give the public seven consecutive
days off, while in Hong Kong there are three public holidays and in
Singapore, two. Unofficially, many Chinese people consider the
traditional period of the first 15 days appropriate to welcome the new
year.
The Recipe: Jiao Zi
![[Dumpling Recipe photo]](http://s.wsj.net/public/resources/images/AW-AG126_sm_DUM_D_20090129163109.jpg)
Samantha SinGrandmother's recipe was
never put to paper, her ingredients were never measured and cooking
times were never recorded. Yet her trained hands and eyes ensured the
final product remained consistent year after year. Use the following
recipe, inspired by Grandmother's Chinese New Year dumplings, as a
starting point for your own dumpling story. Makes 50-80 dumplings:
Dough
375 grams flour (extra for dusting)
1 egg white
180 to 240 milliliters cold water
Filling
2.2 kilograms ground pork (mostly lean, but with some fat)
1/2 medium-size Chinese cabbage (finely chopped)
1 tablespoon ginger (minced)
2 teaspoons garlic (minced)
90 grams scallions (finely chopped)
20 grams chopped cilantro or parsley (finely chopped)
1 egg
1 tablespoon soy sauce
1 tablespoon Chinese Shaoxin cooking wine (or dry Chinese sherry)
1 tablespoon sesame oil
2 teaspoons salt (1 teaspoon for preparing the cabbage, 1 teaspoon for the filling)
1 chicken bullion cube
1/2 teaspoon five-spice powder
1/2 teaspoon white pepper
1/2 teaspoon brown sugar
Dipping Sauce
soy sauce
vinegar
sesame oil
chili paste
minced garlic
- Place the flour in a bowl with the egg white. Slowly add the
cold water, mixing with chopsticks in between additions until it starts
to pull together to form a dough. Then knead with hands until the
surface is shiny and smooth.
- Set the dough aside in a bowl,
cover with a damp cloth and let it rest for at least 30 minutes (this
allows the dough to relax and become easier to roll out).
- Sprinkle
one teaspoon of salt over the chopped Chinese cabbage and mix (this
will draw out water from the cabbage). Let it rest for 10 minutes, then
squeeze out the excess water with your hands.
- In a large bowl,
combine the ground pork, cabbage, ginger, garlic, scallions, cilantro
and egg. Add the soy sauce, wine, sesame oil, remaining teaspoon of
salt, chicken bullion cube, five-spice powder, white pepper and brown
sugar. Mix with chopsticks in a clockwise direction just until all
ingredients are incorporated. Do not over-mix.
- Dust the
countertop with flour. Cut the dough into quarters and roll one quarter
into a thin log (about 2.5 centimeters in diameter). Put the remaining
dough back in the bowl and cover with a damp cloth.
- Cut the log of dough into 1.5-centimeter segments and press each segment to form a disk. If needed, dust with more flour.
- Flour
the rolling pin to prevent the dough from sticking. Then, using your
right hand to operate the rolling pin and your left to rotate the disk
of dough, roll out the dough until you have a dumpling skin about eight
centimeters in diameter, thinner around the edge than in the center.
- Place about a teaspoon of filling in the center of the dumpling skin.
- Then,
using your index finger and thumb, seal the seams firmly; start by
pinching once in the center of the seam and then fold from right to
center with your right hand and left to center with your left hand.
- Bring
a large pot of water to a boil. Add dumplings one at a time, making
sure not to overcrowd the pot. Do not stir; instead, use a spatula to
push the dumplings to prevent sticking. Bring the water to a boil three
times (with the pot covered), adding 120 milliliters of cold water each
time. When the water comes to a boil a fourth time, the dumplings
should be floating and ready to eat.
My family
celebrated the first three days of the Spring Festival in a traditional
way: Everyone came "home," which meant to my grandfather's house. We
were already home -- my father, mother, brother and I lived in Taipei
with my father's parents, who had moved from China in the late 1940s.
Most of my father's family lived nearby. On chu yi, the first day of the new year, friends came to our house to extend greetings. For chu er, the second day, married women returned to their parents' house. The third day, chu san,
was always celebrated united, as a family. And on each of those days,
dumplings were the main food served during lunch and dinner. There
might be other side dishes -- leftovers from New Year's Eve -- but no
other food was prepared from scratch during the holiday. It was
considered bad luck to do any work during this time; to ensure a
peaceful year ahead, you had to rest and that meant no cooking.
Though it isn't known exactly when dumplings came into being, author
and Chinese food expert Fuchsia Dunlop says jiao zi date as far back as
1,100 years ago. "In the city of Turpan, a tomb was uncovered that had
boiled dumplings from the Tang dynasty (618-907) preserved in much the
same shape with similar fillings as they are today," says Ms. Dunlop.
Many people believe the practice of eating these dumplings on
Chinese New Year became popular in the Yuan and Ming dynasties, which
stretched from 1271 to 1644, when yuan bao -- gold and silver
ingots -- began to take hold as currency in China; the dumplings take
the shape of those coins. During new year celebrations, filling your
stomach with edible replicas of ingots was thought to ensure a year of
prosperity ahead. The packaged bites also celebrated a letting go of
the past, since the word "jiao" also means "the end of something."
Traditions have relaxed: Not every family eats only dumplings for three days. They also vary regionally: In the south of China, nian gao,
or rice cakes, are often served instead of these dough-swaddled morsels
at Chinese New Year. Still, hefty portions of dumplings undoubtedly
remain a big attraction this time of year in many Chinese households.
Even now, that initial bite of any dumpling transports me back to
our Taipei kitchen: the women packed like sardines working on their
craft with a Zen-like rhythm, the flour-dusted countertops, the air
redolent with the scent of dough, and the faded brown ceramic tiles on
the floor polished smooth by countless footsteps over the years.
The great dumpling cook-off commenced each year following Lunar New
Year's Eve dinner, a family meal of Grandmother's best dishes -- sweet
soy-braised pork, ru yi cai (10 vegetables tossed together with a soy-sauce vinaigrette), and always steamed fish since its term in Mandarin, "yu," is a homonym for "plenty." By 9 p.m., the plates were cleared and washed, and the women were clustered in the kitchen.
The men, forbidden to enter the cooking area, dispersed to their
separate corners to talk politics and play dice or mahjong while
awaiting the countdown to midnight. Every room of the house swelled
with festivity as the whole family of more than 30 members -- four
generations -- gathered for this night in my grandparents' house.
Amid the bustle, the kitchen alone had an air of serenity and
purpose as the women worked through the night. Before dawn of the next
morning, there would be enough dumplings to cover two large dining room
tables and every kitchen countertop.
To start, Grandmother unloaded from the refrigerator the large ball
of dough made from flour, cold water and a dash of egg white (her
secret ingredient) that she had prepared the day before. Setting it
onto the butcher block with her plump and sturdy hands, she ripped off
two large balls and rolled each into a log, starting her gentle
kneading from the center and stretching out to both sides. The
remaining dough she kept covered under a damp towel.
Meanwhile, the rest of the women -- my mother and two aunts and my
cousins and me -- picked over bunches of coriander and peeled off the
wilted layers of scallions and cabbages. A liberal douse of salt
sprinkled over the cabbage drew out the excess water, and the chopped
confetti-like bits were hand-squeezed to prevent a watery dumpling
filling. The butcher knife rocked repeatedly back and forth on the
ginger and garlic until it was almost a paste. Likewise, the vegetables
had to be diced as finely as possible so they would be evenly spread
through every bite of the final product.
Ignoring the slew of innovative options for fillings popular in
contemporary restaurants -- shrimp and chives, shark's fin and
vermicelli -- we filled our no-frills dumplings with minced pork. Into
the pink ground meat went the chopped speckles of vegetables and herbs
along with sesame oil, Shaoxin wine, salt, soy sauce, a pinch of sugar,
white pepper, five-spice powder and an egg. Nothing was measured, yet
it always tasted the same.
Amy MaTo
celebrate Lunar New Year, everyone went 'home' to the Taipei house of
my grandparents, Ma Ching-rei, left, and Lu Xiao-fang, right, who
passed away within months of each other in the late 1990s.
"That's
enough mixing," Grandmother cautioned. My mother was using a pair of
wooden chopsticks to combine the ingredients in large circular motions.
Grandmother insisted on only combing through the filling in one
direction -- clockwise -- so as to not over-mix, which would make it
tough.
Then like a carefully orchestrated master plan, a natural assembly
line formed. First, Grandmother cut off equal-size segments of her log
of dough and then passed them to my mother, who used a wooden roller to
flatten them into circles, a process called gan mien. Two
aunts continued to fashion new dough into logs on one end of the
kitchen counter, and three cousins lined up on the other end to begin
filling and folding dumplings. The positions would alternate
periodically, and makers would move up the line over the years as their
skills improved. At 5 years old, my job had been the menial task of
pressing the just-cut dough segments into flat disks so they would be
easier to roll out, but I had since graduated to a dumpling folder. All
together, we women stood, each ready to play her part in this culinary
theater.
"Every step requires its own kung fu," Grandmother
instructed in Mandarin. She was short, but her chubby silhouette held
the solid stance of a symphony conductor. The process was tedious, but
a mere mention of serving a frozen dumpling from a supermarket would be
confronted with a gaze that screamed: uncultured, unbelievable, un-Chinese.
The matriarch in her kitchen was doing more than just cooking; she was
training the next generation of wives, daughters and mothers as her
mother-in-law had taught her.
"Use your palm to control the roller, not your fingertips," she
barked. "Keep a steady rhythm, consistent like your pulse." The
dumpling skins weren't flattened in one fell swoop like a pie crust.
Each one had to be rolled just around the rim and rotated so that the
resulting circle was thinner on the edges than in the center. When
folded in half the two sides met, the dumpling skin was uniform in
thickness. It was a painstaking task when repeated over the span of
many hours, and my mother once showed me her swollen palms after a
night of gan mien.
The amount of meat filling had to be just right. Not too much -- "too greedy!" -- and not too little: "too stingy!"
And dumplings had to be folded with both hands. "It's a
superstition," Grandmother told us. "Women who fold dumplings with one
hand won't have children. Your right and left hand have to work
together to be a good mother." Grandmother demonstrated how she used
the fleshy part of the index finger and thumb to press together the
dough. Fresh dough, unlike frozen dough, didn't need water to seal the
seams. Only a firm pinch.
"Beautifully folded," Grandmother commented on the dumpling of the
newest granddaughter-in-law, Mei Fang. "But it took you too long to
make. What good is a wife who makes lovely dumplings if there's not
enough to feed everyone?" Grandmother asked.
The women smirked at the acrid words -- she had been equally harsh
to all of them when they first joined the family. Grandmother had taken
her lumps, too: After she married grandfather, her mother-in-law had
harrassed her on the ways of making a proper dumpling. Now, Grandmother
reigned over her kitchen; it was a classroom and crucible we all
endured.
"It's better that I am more strict on you girls now," she sighed.
"Lest you get criticized by someone else even worse than me." My mother
looked over her shoulder to check on me, her only daughter, and smiled
when I gave her an assuring nod.
When no one was looking, Grandmother washed a small coin and hid it
in one of the dumplings to be discovered by a lucky winner, who was
said to be blessed with extra good fortune for the new year. Despite my
best efforts, I never chanced upon it.
Working until the early hours of the next morning in the kitchen
brought out the juicier stories, ones laced with family secrets,
scandals, gossips and tall-tales, all soaked up by my youthful ears.
"Did you hear? Second uncle's daughter got a tattoo."
"So-and-so's sister is really her daughter."
By the time the echoes of popping firecrackers filled the streets
signaling the stroke of midnight, hundreds of dumplings, ready for
boiling, were lined up on the kitchen sheet pans like tiny soldiers
pending a final command.
With only the boiling of the dumplings left to do, the women then
took turns cleaning up and bathing, all the while trailing after their
children and lulling them to bed. But the majority of the family didn't
sleep. The custom of shou sui, or staying up all night to symbolize having unlimited energy for the upcoming year, was usually followed.
Around 5 a.m., the tables were set in preparation for the midmorning
dumpling brunch. But there was no counting of bowls or chopsticks.
"You're not allowed to count anything during the first day of the
year," reminded Grandmother. "If you don't count anything today, then
the amount of possessions you have will be countless for next year." So
we grabbed chopsticks by the handfuls -- some wooden, some metal, all
mixed in a pile -- and laid them on the table alongside stacks of blue
and white porcelain bowls and plates.
Before long, the first doorbell rang, and along with it came the
boisterous greetings from guests, friends and neighbors. The words gong xi fa cai
("congratulations and be prosperous") were audible even from inside the
kitchen, and they drew out the younger girls, who were eager for their hong bao,
or red packets. These waxy packets stuffed with money were given by
elders to children as a gift, and the youngest in the house could often
rack up what seemed to them a small fortune. Their flour-covered
fingerprints dotted the envelopes as they calculated the year's gains.
At 9 a.m. or when the guest count reached 10 -- enough to fill a
table -- we slid the dumplings into the stainless steel pot, careful
not to let the boiling water splatter onto our bare toes, peeking out
from house slippers. Grandmother insisted on never stirring the pot,
and to ensure the dumplings wouldn't stick together, she slid a spatula
through the bubbling broth just once in a pushing motion. Thrice the
water came to a boil and each time we added more water. By the fourth
time, the dumplings bobbed merrily on the surface. They were done.
Grandmother fished out the broken dumplings before turning to Cousin
Jia Yin, often the culprit, in half jest. "Ah...thanks to you, the
dumpling soup will be especially tasty this year since you've flavored
it with all the filling that busted out." The casualties were fished
out and quickly disposed of; broken dumplings are considered bad luck
if served. To save Jia Yin's face, her father, grandmother's second
son, often said at the table, "Dumplings are great, but my favorite is
still the dumpling soup," ladling up another bowl.
Guests and grandparents ate first and the two large tables in the
dining room were seated by gender. My grandfather took the head seat at
one table with his friends, and my grandmother with hers at the other.
After they ate, the tables were reset and the second generation took
its turn, with my father and uncles at one table, my mother and aunts
at the other. The third and fourth generations had less strict table
assignments and took whatever empty chairs opened up -- it could be two
or three hours before it was our turn to eat.
Steaming plates were heaped high with dumplings still glistening
from their hot-water bath. Diners readied themselves with their own
taste-tinkering rituals in concocting the perfect dipping sauce -- a
combination of soy sauce, vinegar, minced garlic and sometimes sesame
oil or chili paste. Grandmother's special la ba vinegar, marinated with whole garlic cloves, was the most coveted condiment.
Before the first bite, everyone gathered around Grandfather, who
made a toast -- usually with tea though sometimes he would sneak in
some Chinese wine -- to ring in the new year. Then, he took the first
pick of the dumplings -- something of an honor among the women, who
held their breath in hopes that his choice of the perfect dumpling
would be their own. It would have to have the ideal skin-to-filling
ratio, every bite an equal portion of meat and dough, and expert
craftsmanship -- a balanced and symmetrical shape with firmly sealed
seams.
"This one looks good to me," my grandfather decided, gently lifting
the plump parcel with the tips of his chopsticks. It was Grandmother's
dumpling, and she stood poker-faced next to him, not revealing her
triumph.
She remembered a time when her dumplings were the only ones on the
platter. As her family grew, so too did the styles of dumplings until
the plate resembled an eclectic family tree, and each doughy pouch
carried within it the cross-generational memoirs of its maker. The
dumpling ritual slowly faded after Grandmother's passing in 1999;
Grandfather died soon after and the family scattered. But every Chinese
New Year, I still make dumplings in Grandmother's way, repeating her
lessons in my head.
"Eat more! Eat more! There's magic in these dumplings," Grandmother would say. And she meant it truly.
—Amy Ma is a writer based in Hong Kong.
![[SB10001424052970204456604574208031350660324]](http://s.wsj.net/public/resources/images/OB-DU763_TruckF_D_20090604155702.jpg)
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