Kūnmíng (昆明), Yunnan, China — Growing up, my father didn’t cook. He afforded the food set on the table. Together he and my mother tended the garden that brought organic food to our plates before I had ever heard of the word “organic.” When my mother had her third child, my sister, there was the day my dad emptied a can of beans, chopped up a few hot dogs, then baked them in the oven. I reported the culinary phenomenon to my mother recovering from a C-section in the hospital. She called her younger brother to take a Greyhound from San Francisco to Stockton thereafter taking care of my brother, father, and I until she returned to rectify our diets.
While some of the best cooks in the world are known to be men, fathers who cook are still a bit avant garde. When I came to China, I assumed only mothers held the responsibility in the kitchen. I was amazed to find otherwise. I have met multiple families with men who cook!
In Kūnmíng, my friend Gāo Jiā’s girlfriend, Yǎtíng introduced us to her family who had a few favorite recipes to share. Her mother, Liú Āyí, is a doctor in Chinese medicine and her father, Yáng Shìfú is a secretary at the nearby bus depot. Depending on their schedules, both parents share the household tasks. I asked Liú Āyí if she taught Yǎtíng how to cook, but her response is no. Liú Āyí was raised to cook because she was female so she didn’t teach Yǎtíng to cook so as to not peg her daughter into a female role. I sense a feminist backlash has yet to arrive and balance the matter, but I understand her mother’s concern.
Yáng Shìfú is a huge fan of lime. He prefers the tang of lime over vinegar. In Beijing, I’ve had qiāng huángguā a number of times, but only with vinegar. The cucumber is cut then oil is heated and seasoned with Sichuan peppercorns and dried chillies. Qiāng means “flash-fry” so a quick pour of the seasoned oil “flash-frys” the cucumber. Juice from one lime is squeezed over the medley then chilled for later. Yáng Shìfú’s qiāng huángguā wakes up taste buds to start the meal.
Liǎng Mǔ Di (两亩地) means two acres of land. The name lends itself to the two main ingredients; green soy bean and corn. Each ingredient symbolizes one acre. Yáng Shìfú explains why liǎng mǔ di has auspicious meaning. Long ago in China, most people were farmers and the quality of life depended on location. It was said that at least two acres of land were needed to support a family. However many families could barely afford two acres, so they expressed their wishes in the phrase liǎng mǔ di. Also, during those times, corn and beans were most common to raise, so people named their most common dish this lucky name to attract good luck. Yáng Shìfú likes this dish because of its meaning and because it is healthy. He emphasizes the vegetables are organic.
With just a few key ingredients, jiàng bào qiézi (酱爆茄子, eggplant stir-fried in chili bean sauce) is easy enough for any person unaccustomed to cooking. Eggplant is tossed with scallion, ginger, garlic, and dòubàn jiàng (豆瓣酱, broad bean chili paste). Just don’t drown the dish in oil or the eggplant will look like slugs.
Also easy enough for first time cooks is yāncài chǎo ròu (腌菜炒肉, shredded pork with picked vegetables). This dish is great over rice.
Meanwhile, Yǎtíng’s boyfriend, Gāo Jiā, was raised in a household where only his mother cooked and the father was much like my own. Throughout our travels to the homes of many families, we have learned recipes from fathers. I can’t help but wonder how this exposure will effect his role within his future family. If both Yǎtíng and Gāo Jiā weren’t raised to cook, if they marry, will they share the responsibility? Will Gāo Jiā cook despite his father never cooking? Will Yǎtíng cook, despite her mother’s refusal to teach her? I asked Gāo Jiā how our family visits and learning easy recipes makes him feel about cooking and while his mother says he hasn’t yet tried to cook, Gāo Jiā feels confident he can pull off a few of the dishes.
Through my visits in family kitchens across China, I want to share the practices and easy recipes I learn. With nothing fancy to fear, I envision every stir-frying rookie learning a handful of these recipes and possessing confidence in the kitchen.
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Love this story, Shanti. Through necessity, I learned to cook from my college roommate so that I could survive. Of course, I learned a few from my mom, aunties, and grandmas too. From my dad, I learned to prepare simple meals for him
Tuty, I love hearing how people learn to cook out of the necessity to survive. Slightly similar is my need to learn how to speak Mandarin so that I could eat while living here. My husband can speak Chinese, but his vegetable vocabulary was shabby so I learned. It was one of the things that led to learning how to cook Chinese food, as well. My mother was my first teacher.