Whenever my mom would finish making her Shanghainese chicken broth, she would call out, “Chicken soup for the soul!” as a way of getting us to come to the table. To me, my mom’s cooking was truly for the soul — it came to embody the best parts of growing up in suburban Connecticut and New Jersey.
In both states, grocery days were a big deal for my family. There weren’t any good Asian grocery stores nearby, so we set aside every Saturday for filling my mom’s trunk with insulated bags, driving 40 minutes to 99 Ranch and finally returning with everything from tofu to herbal tong hao cai.
Now, wedged between the periodic subway earthquake and the Holland Tunnel during rush hour, I deeply miss my mom, the food she made and the cozy life I associate it with.
In an attempt to feel at home, I’ve come up with a simple ritual to assuage this longing: grocery shopping, cooking and inviting friends over to share in the spread. My dorm is less than a 10-minute walk away from Chinatown. After a long day of class, I grab my reusable Target bag and head to one of the neighborhood’s many Asian markets.
Shopping in Chinatown has become more of a self-care routine rather than a chore. Scanning the wire shelves allows me to relive those Saturday trips and reconnect with my culture. Afterward, making my mom’s recipes transports me to my kitchen in New Jersey: stained tile backsplashes and the constant smell of sauteing garlic, meat and vegetables. Cooking allows me to find a moment of suburban peace in a city that slows down for no one.
While no dorm replica can equate to the real thing, I still attempt to make a few staples from my mother’s repertoire: a meat dish — such as zha jiang mian sauce — along with a sauteed vegetable and rice or noodles.
I adore the simplicity and holisticness of these meals. They ensure a balanced diet, and their sheer completeness is enough to transport me the 60-odd miles to our worn kitchen table. In my mind’s eye, I’m surrounded by family and food while the winter wind rages outside. The persistent city sounds subside, and I am home again.
As I grow more confident in my culinary skills, I’m also able to put my own spin on recipes and even trade ideas with my mom. I’ll suggest new additions to our jiao zi filling, and later, we’ll continue our debate on whether the dumplings taste better boiled or pan-fried — the latter is the only correct choice.
Regardless, the important thing is that I’m learning about these dishes, sitting down with my hands smothered in water and flour and filling dumplings with friends. Such a scene brings me back to the countless times I’ve made dumplings with my family — albeit with the correct ingredients. In either case, we don’t speak, as we’re focused on adding just the right amount of filling and sealing it so it doesn’t burst open when boiled.
My friends, as cheesy as it sounds, have not only helped me to bridge the distance to my family back home, but they have become a part of the one I have here — and that is one of the things I’m most grateful for.
Contact Mia Shou at [email protected]
