When I was younger and people asked what I ate for dinner, I struggled to answer. “It’s Chinese food, but not what you eat at Chinese restaurants,” I’d say. Dinners usually looked like a bowl of rice accompanied by an assortment of veggies, eggs, fish or meat. I didn’t think much of it; I didn’t even really think of it as ‘Chinese’ food, it was just food my mum made.
Food is one of the most personal and public expressions of culture. Nothing gets to the heart of a country quicker than a meal (gastrodiplomacy is literally the building of diplomatic relations through food). It’s why now, at a time when I’m trying to embrace more of my Chinese identity, I’ve been drawn to the cooking and cuisine of my ancestors.
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I’ve got eight relatives this side of the Hemisphere, so proximity to place or family hasn’t ever really been an option for me. Despite many, many years spent at Saturday morning Chinese school, my Mandarin is extremely limited. With physical closeness and fluency in my mother tongue out of my reach, I turned to food.
I’ve always enjoyed the process of preparing rice. I was taught to wash rice twice, swirling the grains around with my entire hand submerged in cold water. I loved watching the water turn an opaque, starchy colour, before filling the rice cooker pot with fresh water. I like imagining my ancestors completing the same therapeutic task.
Upon my insistence, my mum has been teaching me some of our family recipes. The term ‘recipe’ is a stretch, because there are no written down instructions or any measurements. I was quietly confident, though; I enjoy cooking and have consistently watched my mum whip up multiple-dish dinners in 20 minutes.
My family is from the south of China where fresh produce is bountiful — it’s why seasoning is minimal. Salt and soy sauce, alongside ginger, spring onion and garlic, are the main staples in my mother’s kitchen.
Tonight, we’re making steamed fish with some lightly pan-fried greens. We start by going into our garden to cut some of the spring onion my big sister planted for us. Then mum shows me how she individually washes each green leaf (before washing them all a second time).
When I casually throw the sweet potato leaf stems into our green waste, she gasps and pulls them out. This woman doesn’t waste anything — I’ve seen her use pomegranate as a food dye and our caster sugar container is almost 15 years old.
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My mum thinly slices ginger with dexterity and speed. She removes its skin efficiently with a small knife, never removing more than what’s needed. I clumsily and painstakingly try to follow her lead. She cuts the green bits of the spring onion lengthways before julienning them. She places the stems of the spring onion under the pieces of fish we’re cooking to simultaneously flavour them while steaming them through more evenly. I marvel at her ease and understanding of the ingredients she wields.
In our kitchen, I start to understand my mother more. The care with which she handles individual green leaves and remembers each family member’s eating peculiarities by heart is a reflection of how she loves — consistently, attentively and quietly. In many ways, this embodies what Chinese culture is to me.
Being part of the Chinese Australian diaspora means my relationship with my heritage is always in flux. It’s not one stagnant entity, instead, it grows and moulds with me. What I’m certain of, though, is that Chinese food will always connect me back to my culture and cooking Chinese food will always connect me back to my ancestors.
It’s long been said that, especially for people with ethnic parents, feeding people is a sign of love. In Asian households, that commonly manifests as delicately cut pieces of fruit. I want to suggest adding the invisible, tedious work of finely slicing ginger and spring onion to the list.
It’s labour that’s often overlooked, but ultimately binds everything together. The matriarchs that came before me are close by when I’m using a Chinese cleaver or a stainless steel steamer. Their patient toiling and determined love runs through my veins.