Tōngzhōu 通州, CHINA — One of the best things that led me to my Āyí’s home was her cooking. Āyí, Mandarin for aunt, is my mom away from home. When I’m sick, she cares for me. When she cooks me something tasty, like my mother she tells me she’ll show me how to make it. My journey to the kitchens of Chinese families begins in Āyí’s Tōngzhōu apartment, in a suburb just outside of Běijīng 北京.
Saturday morning, Āyí’s husband fetches me in the car he drives for work and drives 45 minutes to a neighborhood of six story buildings without elevators. After climbing four flights of stairs, Āyí’s son, Gāo Jiā opens the door to their cheerful home where two steps from the threshold sits a caged rabbit called “Dandan”, dan meaning “Egg.” Flocks of stuffed animals from the living room to the bedroom, pet turtles, and fish purchased in two’s charm the home with the playfulness I sense in my Ayi’s daily chatter.
Jué Gēn Fěn (蕨根粉, Fern Root Noodle Salad) is something I have never encountered in Chinese food. This fresh noodle salad of sorts, springs with color from carrots, blanched red cabbage, cilantro, dried red chili pepper, garlic, and cucumber. The noodles are made from fern root.
Another cold dish I had yet to try in China was Bàn Fǔzhú (拌腐竹, dried tofu sticks). Contrary to what many people believe, one can eat vegetarian within Chinese cuisine.
Within the 2-meter squared kitchen, I watch as Āyí tosses vegetables and meats into the hissing wok, listening to spices and sauces crackle as they join each medley. Cōng Bào Yángròu (葱爆羊肉, Lamb Slices Sautéed with Scallion) is one of Gāo Jiā’s favorites. He refuses to order this dish in restaurants as any other version pales in comparison to his mother’s.
Here’s my favorite! Hóngshāo Páigǔ (红烧排骨, Red Braised Pork Ribs), soon to become anyone’s favorite upon one rib. Boiled for 40 minutes then tossed into a light sugar glaze, Āyí steals my heart by serving this for lunch. Get the recipe!
For Qīng Chǎo Xiārén (清炒虾仁, Stir-fried Shrimp), Āyí cut carrot and cucumber meticulously into crescent shapes, imitating the form of the shrimp and cashews.
A simple savory, lightly battered then fried 3-inch pieces of what was once a belt-like fish, Gàn Bāo Dàiyú (干包带鱼, Deep-Fried Ribbonfish) is given a splash of vinegar before leaving the wok.
What better way to christen my first family visit than with Báijiǔ (白酒)? This stiff Chinese rice wine can teach a teen to never sneak a nip from the liquor cabinet. The medicinal fumes in the flavor linger on my palette and threaten to return from the depths of my stomach.
As each dish was brought off the burners and scooped carefully into serving plates, Āyí made sure I tasted each dish while hot and at their best. While I asked for only two to three recipes to learn, she pivoted about the floor whipping up six dishes on the typical two burner stove found in most mainland Chinese homes. Doing my best to learn and photograph, I found myself brimming with certainty that I had finally found my dream project. I could have been dreaming, but I have photos to prove it really happened.
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