Mom’s Dumplings

I love dumplings. 

I have had many dumplings in my life. Different shapes, sizes, fillings, skins, dipping sauces… 

The good old pork and napa cabbage dumplings with vinegar. 

The fashionable Shanghai soup dumplings that taste so good they don’t need dipping sauces. 

The fancy Cantonese “har gow” shrimp dumplings that go well with tea. 

The unique but delicious vegetable dumplings I had at a Buddhist temple once. 

Once, I even got a chef to make me a custom giant dumpling that looked like the one from Spirited Away. 

Even now, everytime I walk past a dumpling restaurant, with the same two names they always use -- either “Dumpling King” or “Authentic Northeastern Dumplings” -- I cannot help but go in and try it out. 

And dumplings speak. They really do. Each dumpling, big or small, good or bad, says something interesting about its cook. The texture of the skin shows how well-trained the cook is at flour work. The choice of fillings tell a story of each cook’s different personalities. The different dipping sauces usually speak to the cook’s backgrounds and family traditions. 

But there was one set of dumplings that I could never quite read. Not because it didn’t speak, but because it spoke too much at once. That was my Mom’s dumplings. 

It’s funny. I’ve always thought that Mom’s dumplings are the most delicious dumplings in the world, but my perception as to why that is has changed over the years. 

In China there is a saying that goes: “First there is a mountain, then there isn’t, then there is.” I guess my experience with my Mom’s dumplings was something like that. 

When I was a child, I always thought that my Mom made the best dumplings because she was the best dumpling cook, because she had some secret ingredient that no one else knew about. 

I felt proud to have such an amazing mother, but at the same time, I was annoyed because none of my friends believed me. They always told me: “if your Mom really has a secret ingredient for dumplings, then you should tell us what it is, then we’ll believe you.” So I asked my Mom about it. She smiled and told me that when I grew older, I would know what it is. 

I was excited. I couldn’t wait to grow older so that Mom would teach me what this secret ingredient was. 

But as the years went by, I started to understand. Perhaps what Mom meant wasn’t that she will pass the knowledge of the secret ingredient onto me once I grew older, but that I will naturally understand what it is as I aged. Because there was nothing to pass on in the first place. Because as cheesy as it sounded, there was no secret ingredient. 

I was convinced I had the right answer, and I was understandably disappointed. Maybe Mom wasn’t the superhero I thought she was. Maybe Mom was just a person. Maybe Mom was no more fantastical or amazing than me. Maybe the dumplings only tasted so good because I was deceiving myself, and underneath it all was just some regular old dumplings, like any regular old dumplings. 

So I stopped loving Mom’s dumplings. Sure, everytime I had them they still tasted better than anything, but I kept telling myself that it was all just self-deception that caused that, and forced myself to find them mediocre. And as time went on, it really did seem like those dumplings started to lose their charm. Eventually, I started making my own dumplings and stopped having Mom’s. Occasionally on Chinese New Year, we’d still have a big family dinner with her dumplings, but it was no longer something I cared about deeply. And slowly, even during phone calls when she was asking me about how I ate and telling me to visit home soon, saying that she made dumplings for me, my attitude turned from gratitude and excitement to disregard and annoyance. 

After all, what’s to like about some regular old woman’s regular old dumpling with no secret ingredient? 

But I was wrong, again. And unfortunately, I did not grow out of this mistake as quickly this time. 

After Mom’s funeral, I took with me the last of her homemade dumplings, steamed them, and ate them for the first time in many years. I started crying after my first bite. 

To be honest, those dumplings were not as good as I remembered them. It was a little too big, and the meat was of rather low quality, probably from another bargain sale. Moreover, she put mushrooms in the filling, but I had stopped liking mushrooms inside dumpling fillings for over a year. 

But nonetheless, I cried. Because no matter what, they are Mom’s dumplings -- the best dumplings in the world. 

As tears dripped down my face, I came to a realization. 

My kid self was wrong. There isn’t any magical knowledge that makes Mom’s dumplings amazing. But my teenage and early adult self was wrong too, because there is, in fact, a secret ingredient. 

Those dumplings might not have anything special put into them, and maybe to just about everyone in the world, they are just some regular old dumplings, but to me, they are better than any Michelin chef’s cooking -- they are something that can’t quite be described by any word in any language other than “Mom’s cooking.” 

And Mom might not be a superhero, and perhaps to just about everyone in the world, she is just some regular old woman, but to me, she is more than a superhero and more than the world’s greatest dumpling chef -- she is something that can’t quite be described by any word in any language other than “Mother.” 

That’s the secret ingredient of Mom’s dumplings. Nothing physical, but also not quite something as simple and cliched as “love.” Because the bond between mother and child, the degree of care and passion she put into every stroke of the flour, every mix of the filling, and every fold on the skin cannot be described by a four-letter word usually used in terms of romance. It is something that can’t quite be described by any word in any language, yet can be understood universally by all those who have had a mother figure in their lives -- a certain “motherness.” 

The secret ingredient is every time I tripped and fell as a baby, and every word of encouragement she uttered. 

The secret ingredient is every time I cried over a failed test, and every warm hug she offered. 

The secret ingredient is every time I yelled at her for something stupid I did, and every plead for fogiveness she gave. 

The secret ingredient is every time I dismissively answered her questions over the phone, and every additional question she asked just to speak to me for longer. 

The secret ingredient is every time I told her I couldn’t make a family reunion, and every disappointed “ok” she replied. 

The secret ingredient is every bite I ever took on a dumpling, hers or otherwise, and every detailed mental note she made. 

The secret ingredient is embracing me and putting me back to sleep in her arms again and again. 

The secret ingredient is holding my hand and teaching me how to write my own name. 

The secret ingredient is scolding me for making a mistake and taking all the blame for me behind my back. 

The secret ingredient is studying school material she had long forgotten and helping me with my homework. 

The secret ingredient is lending money to me whenever I needed it and never asking me to return it. 

The secret ingredient is preparing meals for me when I return and making my bed when I leave. 

The secret ingredient is sacrificing everything to raise a child, no matter how ungrateful I was. 

The secret ingredient is remembering that I like mushrooms in the filling when I myself forgot about it. 

And because of this secret ingredient -- all these secret ingredients -- Mom’s dumplings are the best in the world.