Persuasion

Steamed Dumplings were a specialty in our house. Everyone thought that. And they thought Grannyma was the specialist. That’s because I told my classmates how clever she was at cooking.

Some girls wanted to visit our home for dinner to taste Grannyma’s secret recipe. I stalled them with excuses.

Last night I shouted, “Grannyma, why can’t you cook? This is no good.” I threw a packet of frozen potstickers on the stone benchtop. And stared at it, in disgust.

 “Ai ya,” she said. “Why talk to me like that.”

“Because you won’t cook and won’t teach me how to.”

“Lily. You can learn at school.’

Yes, I could. But it would defeat my purpose because I’d bragged so much about my super-talented Grannyma, who would want my dumb, domestic science experiments?

In desperation, I turned on the computer and checked Recipes Online.

Two weeks later I invited my first guest, Tracey, to my home. Grannyma was out. I knew her Mahjong class would keep her busy for some time.

Water boiled on the stovetop. I placed a cane basket over the pan once the steam was rising high in whispery tendrils.

“What’s that for?” Tracey said. And almost drooled when I mentioned steamed dumplings. “Can’t wait to taste your Granny’s food.”

I never told her it was an untruth. That I’d made the dumpling wrappers myself with flour and water. You have to be careful when you roll them out. Not too wet. Not too sticky. Not too much filling. My filling was made from pork mince, spring onion, garlic and spices. I’d piled a spoonful onto each circle, then folded the sides together, into semi circles. Pinching with my fingers, all around the edges.

I smiled to myself as I lowered a few into the basket. Some seemed to have faces. One looked like mine, round with a smile. Another looked like Grannyma – longer with a sad expression. The only time she smiles is when she wins at Mahjong. It’s not very often. 

That day, she must have failed miserably, for she turned up far too early, catching me unawares while I was showing Tracey how to use chopsticks.

My first batch of dumplings were sitting in a bowl on the dining table. And because Tracey thought Grannyma (GM) had made them, she dipped one into a little pot of gingery, garlic sauce and tasted it, saying, “Wow, Granny, your dumplings are wonderful.” 

“What dumplings?” Frown - faced GM looked at me and made a sound of disgust before clomping into her room and swiftly, closing the door.

“I was only trying to compliment her,” Tracey said. “But are you sure she made these? I thought she was a good cook? They aren’t very nice. I’ve tasted better ones, frozen from the shop.”

I sampled one and grimaced. My dumplings were soggy and pale. The only thing that might improve them was shallow frying – it would brown them all over and make them crisp. I wasn’t going to do that right then. And I wasn’t ready to admit that GM did not cook.

I told Tracey to ignore GM if she resurfaced. That’s what I did every time GM sank into misery because nothing would snap her out of it. She was best left alone. It might be hours; it might be days.

Unfortunately for me, GM reappeared immediately and pointed to the dumplings. “Lily? Did you say I made these? Such a lie.” She turned to Tracey. “I did not. I never cook. I hate cooking.” The long face lengthened even more. She charged back to her room.

Tracey left.

Rumours spread around the class about me after that. Not fake news. It was real. They all found out I had lied. I couldn’t face people. Had to change schools.

At the new one I enrolled in an Asian cooking course.

Grannyma became my tasting sampler after she realised why I had lied about her at my former school. I just wanted something positive to say to everyone. My classmates' mothers seemed to be skilled at sewing and all sorts of things. I wanted something to brag about too. Poor Grannyma. She brought me up to be honest after my parents died. She deserved much better from me.

I graduated with high marks in Home Economics and we celebrated, GM, me and a new friend, Jimmee, I’d met in cookery class.

He visited us each week after that. He had a talent for creating authentic dishes with a dash of this, a handful of that. His technique was fast and efficient.

Oil and chopping boards, gas jets and flames were only part of the appeal he brought to our kitchen. He had flair and was an expert in the art of persuasion; and he wrapped Grannyma round his little finger in the same way an Italian skillfully wraps spaghetti around a fork.      

Jimmee made moon cakes and we celebrated the Moon Festival, outdoors, at our house with Chinese lanterns and sweet treats and burning candles on the table.

Now, Jimmee wants to open his own restaurant. He has asked me if I would join him. Only after I learn more, I said. And work harder. Much, much harder.

Grannyma likes him a lot. Her cheeks fatten into smiles whenever he is around. She enjoys honey chicken and satay pork, fish and beef. Or whatever he makes in his sizzling wok. His special fried rice is so tasty that we always want triple quantities. Enough for a week.

One day, while we were feasting on garlic, king prawns, Jimmee said to GM, “Lily and I are going to be famous. We will run a big restaurant in the best part of town. We will fill it with round tables and red cloths. People will make bookings days ahead; and tell their friends all about it.”

 “What will you call your fancy eating place?” GM said.

“I will think about that,” he replied. “Maybe it will be Lily's Palace. She will be famous one day, your granddaughter.”

 “Yes, one day she well might. But let me tell you this. Right now, she is just another face in the crowd.” 

Jimmee looked at me and grinned; his lips curving much like a cashew nut- or a crescent moon.