In Places Most Familiar

Making Baozi 

The other day,  I learn that my grandma (A Ma) is going to make baozi.  Generally intrigued at creating things -  and particularly the edible - I ask, "A Ma, can I join you to learn how to make baozi? (in Mandarin-Chinese).  A Ma looks and me, and nods her head in approval.  I think that she is grateful to have me along, but I wonder how much I will slow down the process this time, true of many of my attempts to learn new things.  Admittedly though, that has rarely kept me from trying in recent times.  Baozi, by the way of Wikipedia, is "a steamed, filled bun in Chinese cuisine," for those who are wondering.

My grandma grinds up the ingredients - pork, garlic, and Chinese cabbage - in a blender in the morning and puts it in the refrigerator for later.  She makes the dough, combining flour with sesame seeds, yeast and water.  She leaves it to rise for the next couple hours.

Baozi ingredients - pork, ginger,
Chinese cabbage

In the afternoon, we lay out the materials. The process, I liken, is similar to dumpling-making.  After flattening a handful of dough and rolling out the edges in a circle, we place the meat and vegetable in the center.  We pull up the edges of the wrapper to to enclose the bun, ensuring that the top is fully secure.

Baozi wrapper with meat and vegetables

I am, of course, determined to make a "good" first baozi.  

"Make sure the edges of the baozi wrapper are thinner than the middle, so that when we eat it, the top of the bun is not too doughy" my grandma says.  "Also, make sure that there is not too much meat and vegetable in the baozi because it won't close well." I do my best.

The process in very much trial and error, and I am grateful for room for mistakes in our relaxed setting.  We are focused but not overly-consumed by our task.  With things like this, A Ma has learned to laugh over mistakes, while somehow always managing to correct them.  Wrapping the baozi is the most difficult part.  I proceed the way that I remember my grandma had taught me to make dumplings in the past, finish, and wait for the critique. My grandma looks over and says, "Haa-naa (how my name sounds in Chinese).  That looks really good."  I feel like a rock-star.

In process...

My grandma and grandpa (mom's side) have been a part of my life for as long as I know.  I remember the times back in New Jersey, when I as a kid would climb into my grandpa (A Gong)'s rocking chair to play with his heated-back-massage-remote-controlled-thing, and wait for the inevitable moment when he would obtrusively kick me off to take his chair back.  Haha, I think that most people might think his brash mannerisms rude.  I just think that that's Grandpa.

My grandparents, in my mind, are enclaves of life wisdom, with spiritual discipline from years and years of habitual obedience and service to the Kingdom.  Their devotion is perhaps due to a tireless journey with beginnings from a war-torn poverty-ridden Taiwan after WWII to controversial and demanding conversions to Christ which have driven their major life decisions.  As grandchildren, we enjoy the fruits of their labor, though admittedly without much recognition of what it took to get here.  I resent how it only takes one generation, if even that much, to forget a hard-pressed past.

We always wrestle in our communication.  Our conversations exist almost entirely in mandarin-Chinese, despite the few words of English thrown in, or statements in Taiwanese when A Ma forgets that I do not speak Taiwanese.  More than just the language barrier, however, I feel that much of our energy is spend addressing mis-communications based out of assumptions from different generational and cultural backgrounds.  Growing up, I didn't know that that was actually a thing.  I simply did not understand my grandparents always telling me what was right and wrong.  "Haa-naa, don't put your hair in front of your face," my grandma once said, pulling out the braid I had spent unprecedented amounts of time perfecting back in middle-school.  This was when putting a braid in front of your face with a butterfly clip was the thing to do.  I remember being infuriated.  How could my grandparents constantly command me around and tell me that the way I am living is wrong?  While I like to think that we have progressed a lot since then, many of our spats today are of a similar nature, me feeling irritated by uninvited suggestions, and them doing so because it is the only way they have ever known to love.  More commonly these days, however, communication is lost also to a lack of hearing.  Nonetheless, in the daily disputes over simple-nothings, I am inspired by my grandparents. (Though in moments of frustration, I have to remind myself).  A Ma, with only a fifth-grade education, has a persistence to live and learn well that could take on a college student any day.  I must add that like me, that does not always mean that she remembers what she learns!

Baozi plate ready to be steamed 

Grandma (A ma) placing a Baozi on our plate

A Ma and me

Overall, I thought it would be appropriate to begin this blog at home, where the familiar can be so unfamiliar.  The background is fittingly my A Ma's hands in our process of creating Baozi.   


Note: A Ma looks over my shoulder at these pictures and straight-up laughs because she thinks the pictures make us look "professional" in our baozi-making.  She says our baozi look like they belong in a restaurant, hahah. In reality, the baozi wrap we make is too thick for most people's preference.  And the latter half of the baozi-making process grants that each bun is much larger than we intended, the ever-present ingredients and flour of our baozi messing up our concentration.  Despite our lackluster baozi-making, the process of making stuff together and consuming it together? So worth it.