they are how i know who i am

Auntie Doris is on the left and Auntie Jane is on the right.

They are cooking veterans, consummate chefs, their skill honed from cooking thousands of humble home meals and endless Chinese buffets for family. Before Auntie Jane’s accident, they would stand side by side at the stove preparing family dinners. Aprons strapped on, wooden spoons gripped in their strong hands, occasionally standing on tiptoe to better see to the back of the cauldrons of food they stirred, together they would taste and season and nurse steaming pots of ingredients into comforting and delicious food. My other younger aunties scurry around them prepping their supporting side dishes and salads, but the rush does not touch Auntie Jane or Auntie Doris. They’re in total command.

When I was growing up, so inseparable were the two that I thought they had grown up together. I once asked Auntie Doris if Auntie Jane was a bridesmaid in her wedding and Auntie Doris laughed, feigned shock and said, “We did not know each other when I got married! Auntie Jane is MUCH older than me!” They are indeed more than a decade apart, related because both married into the family soon after arriving in the United States. Forty years later, they are close friends, a conspiratorial duo. In their rare moments of rest they can be found sitting not far from the food table (think kraft services on a movie set) that they mind–no one is allowed to pass without being offered a bite of fruit or a Chinese bun or a meat dumpling. They sit close, with their heads leaning in towards each other, laughing or gossiping or scolding each other.

They carry much of the family’s collected cooking knowledge. When in doubt about a recipe or best practices–why isn’t the chicken soaking up the sauce? How come the curry tripe tastes watered down after the second day? Does the dish call for a dice? Fine chop? Thick slices?–consult either of them. Auntie Jane is famous for classic Cantonese Chinese home cooking, Auntie Doris has a reputation for being a little bit more adventurous. “You get bored eating the same thing every year, riiight?” she says by way of explaining why she’s decided to throw snow ear fungus into the porridge we eat every morning when the family is together.

My aunties have perfected cooking for large groups. If it means turning 15 pounds of raw noodles, 7 pounds of barbecued pork, 5 pounds of bok choy, 5 pounds of mushrooms into enough chow mein for 60 people, they suggest cooking in batches. Find the biggest pans you have and make as much will fit that pot. Season it just right for that batch. Test, then throw it into a food warmer and start over. When you’ve moved through all your ingredients, mix everything together; the flavors will melt into each other and settle by serving time.

This one morning though, with time on their hands and a little audience of eager, novice cooks at their feet, they had the time to quibble over the exact proportions of seasonings for a batch of siu mai stuffing. (We made 400 that day.) The recipe–my great grandmother’s–is vague, little more than a shopping list of ingredients with no directions. Oyster sauce, oil, a little wine, sugar, some chicken powder. But how much? One preferred oyster sauce, the other thought it darkened the meat too much.

They went back and forth, Auntie Jane speaking in her thick country Chinese, Auntie Doris swatting her hands away, both clearly enjoying arguing with each other, testing each other’s expertise. Auntie Jane would turn around to check on the shredding of the cabbage, and with her back turned, Auntie Doris would make a loud show of snatching the oyster sauce bottle and shushing us while she seasoned the meat to her liking. On it went, they never stopped laughing but only ever compromised begrudgingly. They keep high standards.

Growing up, it often seemed like being a 5th generation Asian American was uncharted and lonely territory. But my aunties, they quiet all the nagging insecurities about whatever Chineseness still exists inside me. When I am with them, I know who I am. I am their niece. And they are my aunties.

Filed under: everything, family, food, identity