Dumpling Lies
Hetian Xu
I lie to my grandmother
Every Saturday at 6 pm
When Dad calls her on her mobile
And passes the phone to me.
Before the pandemic it used to be
Once a month.
She says: “Baobei (my baby)!” in excitement
But the rest of her words drown in my ears
We struggle to understand each other:
Her garbled provincial dialect,
Words tumbling and tripping over themselves
Like water over a pebble-filled brook
And my clipped, scrambled Chinese,
Stumbling blind across vowels,
Biting down on the consonants,
Am I saying this right?
But there’s one phrase I always know
Because she asks it every time:
“Baobei… do you miss Grandma?”
I’ve learned not to hesitate,
For what can I say
When her voice sounds so gentle and warm
Yet pleading and bracing?
“Yes, I miss Grandma a lot!”
“You do?” The satisfaction in her voice is hard to miss.
The relief is faint, but still there.
“Yes,” I say. “I miss your dumplings.”
“Zhen de (Really)?” she crows in glee,
As if I don’t say this every time.
“Next time you come over to Grandma’s,
After virus is gone,
Grandma will make you my trademark dumplings.
So plump and delicious!”
My hand drops to my side, lackluster
And I can no longer hear what Grandma’s saying.
Dad takes the phone from my hand
Mouths a “thank you, good job” and
Plunges from familiar English into his Chinese hometown accent
As naturally as changing clothes,
From his stiff crisp business attire to lounge sweats and tees–
His last remnant of home.
***
We’re sitting at the small dining table: Mum, Dad, and I
Wooden chopsticks clutched in my right hand
Stabbing them into a disfigured ball and
Shoving it into my mouth.
Mum tsks as she takes a bite.
“These are no dumplings,” she declares scornfully
Shaking her head at the sad, white lumps
Bobbing up and down in her boiled water soup.
She turns to me, “Grandma makes the best dumplings.
Right? You used to love them.”
They both look at me expectantly.
But how can I bear to tell my parents
I don’t remember Grandma’s signature dumplings?
Even after the pandemic cut us off,
We were already strewn apart
By the currents of time.
How can I tell them that
I don’t remember the thick, pastry skin,
The rich, finely diced pork
And the specks of fresh cabbage?
How can I tell them
I don’t remember how Grandma folded those dumplings
Cradling each one in her hands,
Dabbing water, as if blessing them with love,
Scooping satchels of sticky filling
Bending them into little boats
To sail off into our mouths?
How can I tell them that
All I know now are the frozen dumplings in Safeway,
Imposters, with hard shallow shells,
The inside pork like chalk and hard to swallow,
The cabbage, dry and lifeless?
How can I tell them
Each time we stroll into the freezers section in Safeway
And Mum scowls at the available options,
I try to remember the steam billowing out from the cooker,
The smell of soup swaddling me like a blanket,
And Grandma’s eager call: “Ai ya, the dumplings are ready!”
But I can’t?
How can I when we’re oceans apart,
Two continents apart,
Five-years-and-a-half apart?
What can I do but muster a smile and say,
Say as I always do,
“Yeah, I remember.”
So I scoop up the dishaven ball,
A little boat disfigured into sludge,
Sink my teeth into sour pork,
And swallow the lie whole.
