Love Letter to Zong
If I could bottle up any smell, it would be the sweet scent of soaking bamboo leaves, boiling in an industrial metal pot on the stovetop. My early childhood days are best remembered for 嫲嫲 (grandmother) wrapping zong, a Chinese sticky rice dish, on the cold tile floor of our kitchen.
Mismatched pans containing soaked rice granules and slippery bamboo leaves, smaller vats of fatty pork and shelled peanuts scattered about. Thin twine pieces strewn among this. Despite the tedious implications of this task, Grandmother often went about wrapping zong cheerfully. Her calloused hands, hardened against heat and steam, cup several stalks of bamboo leaves as she generously fills them with savory fillings one-by-one. Kind eyes, no longer able to recognize when thread was strung through a needle, somehow continued to remain vigilant in ensuring each zong was uniformly plump. Though it was laborious to bind the loose ingredients with the slippery leaves without any wasted product, Grandmother was diligent in seeing it through. She did not allow herself a break to neither eat nor complete other chores around the house until the zong underwent its last round of steaming. Only then did she allow herself to be restored by a simple meal of steamed rice and vegetables or begin hanging the laundry.
Grandmother did not wear her heart on her sleeve often. However, when wrapping zong, she could barely contain her excitement. Though she criticized others for jiggling their legs, lecturing that one’s luck would “escape”, Grandmother was also guilty of committing this same act. Her shoulders trembled, causing her frail body to reverberate. She smiled a big, gummy grin, in anticipation of her grandchildrens’ surprised reactions. Around 2 o’ clock, her scholarly grandchildren would return from their studies. Each one trickled in, depending on how hungry they were. Grandma predicted they would be, and her predictions were accurate. The eldest daughter, 小女 (little girl), would always be the first to roll
Her entrance was preceded by an echoing, “我回家了” (I‘ve returned). Of the three grandchildren, 女 was punctual in attending mealtimes, which gave her the upperhand in winning Grandmother’s favor. 女 was also the most fluent in Cantonese, and regaled Grandmother with pleasant conversations about her school day. To counteract the stress of AP classes and running the school newspaper, she happily tucked into one zong. Next would be the youngest, 宝宝 (baby). In contrast to 小女 ‘s gregariousness, baby was more withdrawn and understood the least Cantonese. However, this did not discourage Grandmother from coddling him. Once 宝宝 finished one zong, he was gently nagged to eat another. A boy who operated with more intelligence than sense, he tended to neglect mealtimes for furthering his studies. Grandmother knew this best. She also knew that 宝宝, unlike 小女 who had the opposite flavor palette, preferred sweets over savories. Despite this, baby could put away two zongs with loving encouragement.
Finally, the first son would be the last to join the bunch. A natural athlete, his track practices would deter his arrival back home. The boy stood out from his other siblings, in that he had a fiery temper but a witty tongue. Quick to react, but slow to come home. Though he could not grasp the exact tones of Cantonese, he was eager to improve and this was a sure-fire way of pleasing Grandmother. First son loved to crack jokes with Grandmother as he savored his after-practice zong. Like his unpredictable personality, his stomach capacity ranged from one to three zongs.
Unwrapping and digging into the zong’s steaming goodness was a joyous occasion. The sweet bamboo smell was a preview and the sticky rice, like teasers before a thrilling action movie. Peeling back the soft, gold-colored millet, one would discover its riches–boiled peanuts, buttery pieces of fatty pork and the grand finale at each zong’s center, a 腊肠 (Chinese sausage). Simple ingredients, yet filling enough to stuff an empty belly. This was the magic of Grandma’s traditional Toisan-style zong. Her own children, fully grown and self-sufficient, Grandmother derived joy from spoiling her grandchildren rotten. A girlhood marked by war, resulted in an upbringing of food insecurity and constant danger, led to cooking becoming her primary love language. A no-frills type of woman, Grandmother’s face would only light up like a Christmas tree when her grandchildren expressed audible delight at her cooking. She refused all verbal gratitude. Instead, she asked that her grandchildren eat her hearty meals to nourish themselves into strong and healthy people, capable of handling whatever future endeavors entailed for them.
In college, I stop every so often and reminisce about these warm childhood days. When I eat the sad dining hall stir-fry or boil water for soggy instant ramen, it makes me crave my Grandmother’s magic touch. It doesn’t matter that she no longer lives with my family in California, but that when I visit her in Texas… She is the kind of home I long for and miss.
Caitlyn Lee (she/they) is an undergraduate Writing & Literature student attending the University of California, Santa Barbara. She is an American-born Cantonese from southern California. Caitlyn is passionate about sharing her cultural heritage and family history, which translates into the mediums of Asian American fiction and personal essays. Though Caitlyn is most interested in the topic of Hoa people, she also enjoys writing about Chinese food and mythology. When she is not reading or writing, Caitlyn enjoys dancing to KPOP and walking around art museums. In addition to Writing and Literature, Caitlyn plans to major in Asian American studies to supplement her current knowledge on the field.