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At one point, this blog is categorized as a space for art criticisms. At another point, feministic spirits are inserted here and there from time to time, without being so obviously intentional. Also at one point, this blog is a collection of political comments mysteriously coveted by personal emotional craps. Also at another point, this blog is simply public philosophy in disguise with the various formats mentioned above and the infinite possibilities that haven’t been exactly delineated.

Now at this point, this blog is about culinary nostalgia.

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What do I miss the most from China?

—The answer is unequivocally and emphatically food.

But really, what exactly do I miss about the food there?

—If I have to pick, it’s going to be marinated raw crabs.

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I guess, every auditory experience is attached to a set of auditory memories—the senses that our muscles memorize during the timeframe of the music performance. Likewise, every gustatory experience is attached to its associated gustatory experiences. For me, marinated crab is my nametag for happiness. (FYI, my other nametag for happiness is Trader Joe’s, if you will).

Despite my historical non-resolvable differences with my family, we do share one important lovely bond—our taste for food. My father was born and raised in Hangzhou. My granddad was from Zhuji, a town nearby. Despite the change of geographical scenario (after a string of socio-historical forces that led them to moving to Chuxiong and then to Kunming), my family has been consistent and faithful to our culinary practices.

Our primary preference for food is none other than our home food—杭州菜/Hangzhou cuisine. We also terribly adore Chaoshan cuisine, and sometimes the latter prevails. Granddad was a chef with an accountant degree. He was famous for his fried shrimps 油爆虾, tofu soup 大豆腐, sweet-vinegar ribs 糖醋排骨 (geez, isn’t this cuisine saying a lot about our culture), and noodles 片儿川.

We have this branch of relatives in Hangzhou—my great uncle, great aunt, and their children visit Kunming usually on a yearly basis. When they come to the south, they usually gift walnuts 小核桃, fish 小黄鱼, or sugar 桂花糖.

Every winter, my granddad would expect the delivery of winter bamboo 冬笋 from his brother. Because winter bamboo grows specifically in the east. In fact, the content of the delivery is probably not as important as the bond of blood that the delivery implies.

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I love my granddad. He was reputed for his grumpiness. But that description never occurs to me. In reminiscence, I started to understand his crankiness, as I started to live through the life of an expat—how one ends up in one place, not the other, when one is a member of a social flow or of a social identity, with little control over the unfolding of events that sometimes has preshaped (hate the word “predetermined”; not going to use it).

Granddad passed away when I was around 11, before I went to Shanghai. Barely an adult, I found death to be unfathomable.

After all, what does it mean when a person was gone—as in gone forever?

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What I started to realize is, a series of cuisines is gone with granddad.

Nobody in the family has inherited grandad’s exquisite culinary skills, except the caring lady that grandad hired in his last few years. Ironically, everybody in the family condescends to culinary practices, finds it trivial and easy, and refuses to be equalized to the role of a chef. For dad, the target of prioritization is survival of material goods. For me, it’s my commitment to music practice, studying, and philosophizing.

Grandad’s cuisines are gone with him. So is the ineffably harmonious vibe of the family’s weekly gathering.

鎮上的中央有高高的月亮
村子有好人家
古老的山丘有雀兒們歌唱
裊裊中飯菜香

遙遠的童年啊爹娘是天堂
三里外斜坡長
烏黑的頭髮是永恆的家鄉
故事慢慢講

慢想~慢想~慢想~
慢想~慢想~慢想~
搖啊搖搖到外婆橋
搖啊搖搖到外婆橋

(慢想~)

搖啊搖搖到外婆橋
搖啊搖搖到外婆橋
搖啊搖搖到外婆橋

搖啊搖搖到外婆橋
搖啊搖搖到外婆橋

外公的書法有古老的心腸
笑著有黃泥香
外婆的花草是南方的風光
庭院正芬芳

搖啊搖搖到外婆橋

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Before the tone of this blog turns naturally bleak again, I want to emphasize my actual intention to be an honoring homage to my granddad.

During my years in Shanghai, my mom painstakingly learned to fry the blue crabs for me (my mom hates seafood in general, unlike me) and hence often cooked crabs for me. Sometimes she also experimented with sweet-vinegar rice cakes with crabs 糖醋年糕大闸蟹. My mom and I were in total consensus, I guess, at that particular crystalized moment.

My dad also attempted to track the culinary skills of granddad from time to time, although with great clumsiness and wackiness. What matters is his goodwill. My dad likes to cook me fish noodles 黄鱼面 and wontons 虾米紫菜馄饨. My dad is the most entrepreneurial guy who always resorts to know the one guy who sells the best seafood in Shanghai and in Kunming. In the weekends, we sometimes ordered crabs and other seafood from that dude, who delivered everything afresh. Mantis shrimp 皮皮虾 is my other favorite. I can eat a whole plate easily. Clams as well.

Now coincidentally ending up in the United States, I no longer can find those food. Maybe I can, but they’re ultimately not the same or consistent with my gustatory memory. So I vicariously live through and build up my gustatory experience through a Netflix series on marinated crabs.

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It’s my impression that grandad’s lifetime dream is to return to the east from the south. Grandad worked hard for it, but couldn’t. Dad worked hard for it as well, but couldn’t. As the 3rd generation in this miserable sequel, I managed to return to Shanghai and finish their nostos, and each of us pays our idiosyncratic prices.

The irony is that i left shanghai—eventually.

Discrimination based on geographical origins is nothing new. The sense of superiority for culture, food, educational resources, and history is not amiss in the east. When one is deviated to the south, one loses the fast access to the sea, as well as to the seafood.

For a life time, we have to prove that we eat like a Hangzhounese and that we come from the east.

And for sure, when eating noodles, I wouldn’t stand not adding vinegar 镇江香醋.