A Delicious Meal

In my recent dreams, I often walked into a small alley, an alley around two meters wide, with one side stood a row of bungalows, another side where walls were strewn with evergreen climbers. It was the most familiar path which I could easily pass through, even with my eyes closed – it led to my grandma’s home.

In the dreams, I saw grandma, a kind old lady 5 feet tall, with neatly combed black hair pinned on both sides, her lips thin and rosy, footsteps brisk yet steady. Smiling as usual at me, she told me that dinner would be ready in five minutes, then lowered her head to resume cooking on the old brick-made stove fueled by coals.

Long before my grandma passed away, at the age of 90, I used to spend most of my childhood years there. Grandma was a great cook, from tomato meatball soup, to stewed chicken with mushrooms, stir-fried beef with ginger, and braised fish, there was no dish she could not handle expertly.

Back in the bleak winter afternoons, when I skittered home from school, stomach protesting from hunger and the ensuing craving for food, there was always warm streaming bowls of my favorites set on the dinning table, waiting. It seemed that grandma’s happiest moment of the day was watching me gobbling up and fetching more rice, as she grinned like a child. While we ate and talked, the inviting smell filled in the kitchen and overflew to the neighbors, bringing other old ladies in the alley, with their heads inquisitively leaned by the door, asking what’s the delicacy this time grandma had made.

In every new year’s eve, Grandma would prepare a feast, which was the most important event for her since on this day, all family members, wherever we were, gathered together. She got up early; after worshiping Zao Shen (Kitchen God) — an everyday ritual including incense sticks and candles burning as well as buddha scriptures chanting in front of the stove, grandma began juggling multiple tasks all by herself.

Humming soft buddhist songs, she smoothly switched from washing and chopping to boiling, steaming or frying. Perhaps the Kitchen God had answered grandma’s prayers, as vehement flames jumped up and down, accelerating the cooking process. We all enjoyed the feast in the new year’s eve and the boisterous aura usually lasted till midnight.

Grandma left us six years ago. I woke up from such dreams, my throat felt tight and my heart ached.

Yesterday I turned to my mom and said, “Hey mom, can we have grandma’s specialty dish — Mei Cai Kou Rou (steamed pork with preserved vegetable)? I really miss it. ”

“Of course we can!”. Mom is an action-taker as well. The view of her occupied in the kitchen preparing food reminded me of my beloved grandma.

Now I am having a scrumptious meal: with the sweet steamed pork, fatty and juicy, melting in my mouth like soft pudding, and preserved vegetable saturated with gravy. I have rarely indulged myself in eating rice these days (been on a diet), but this time, it is an exception.