Hi there:
I hope everyone is still healthy and coping well with stay-at-home protocols.
After five straight stories set against the coronavirus outbreak in China, we’re switching gears a bit. In the next two editions, I’ll be presenting the two essays that were supposed to kick off the newsletter had the epidemic not hit.
Zhang Qingyi is probably one of my favorite writers since I started monitoring online non-fiction nearly two years ago. A vocational school teacher by day, she’s a prolific writer by night, having already completed a webnovel and contributing frequently to one of our regular sources, The Livings.
In the first piece, which first ran in The Livings on April 20 last year, she tackles the delicate issue of a married Chinese woman’s relationship with her mother-in-law. The antidote? Sticky rice dumplings.
In the second essay, we will run in a few weeks, Zhang provides a vivid account of the ups and downs of her day job.
—ML
My Mother-in-law Conquered Me with Sticky Rice Dumplings
By Zhang Qingyi
Credit: Jinning Li.
1.
July 2014. I was four months pregnant.
“How are things, Xiao (Little) Zhang? The morning sickness should be over by now, no?” my colleague Ma Li asked, using a term of endearment.
“It’s not bad. The problem is I don’t have an appetite. I don’t want to eat anything.” My morning sickness was brutal in the three months prior. I threw up whatever I ate, even the water I drank. Instead of gaining weight, I lost 2 kilograms. I had finally survived the nausea, but now I was indifferent to all types of food.
“That won’t do. Even if you aren’t hungry, the baby inside you sure is. You’ve got to force some food down,” said Old Li, a male colleague in his 40s.
“Who’s going to take care of the baby after you give birth?” Ma Li asked.
“Probably my mother-in-law. That’s what we agreed on. Both my in-laws will relocate from my husband’s hometown.”
“Then brace yourself. No woman in human history has ever gotten along with her mother-in-law.”
“I get the sense my in-laws are decent folks.” Thus I paid lip service. Deep down, I knew full well that I could count on one hand the number of days I spent with my in-laws since my husband and I got married years ago. They were accrued mostly from brief visits to my husband’s hometown over Lunar New Year.
My husband is the youngest of four children, with three older sisters ahead of him. When I first met my in-laws, my father-in-law was already near 70. His hair had gone completely grey, but he was still quite lively and in good spirits. He is a reticent man to begin with—and his Mandarin is quite poor—so before that point, we barely communicated.
My mother-in-law is about 10 years younger than my father-in-law. She has short hair, symmetrical ears and a round face, maintaining quite the tidy appearance. Her Mandarin is much better than my father-in-law’s, but we also had barely talked because every time I saw her she was always so busy—busy cooking, tending to guests or cleaning house. In my recollection, she never complained about being tired, always wearing a broad smile that seemed to spread to the wrinkles on her face.
My father-in-law likes to laugh too. Their home in the countryside has a small courtyard. Every time the entire family hangs out in the courtyard to shoot the breeze and kid around, he’ll seat himself on a small stool nearby and listen to us quietly while puffing on a cigarette. He never butts in, but he always laughs along. As these scenes flashed through my head, Ma Li kept blabbering away about how difficult her mother-in-law is. “My in-laws are quite nice. Every time we spend Lunar New Year with them, they’re very polite to me,” I said.
“Lunar New Year is only a few days. How can you tell? When I first went home with my husband for Lunar New Year, my mother-in-law had a basin of water ready and my toothpaste squeezed by the time I woke up. But after she moved in with us to help take care of our son, she started taking all my feedback personally—and she never complained to my face. Not only did she badmouth me in front of my son, she talked trash about me in the neighborhood. By the time the damage was done, even the cashier at our closest supermarket thought I was an evil daughter-in-law who dedicated her days to plotting abuse against her mother-in-law. Is that infuriating or what?” I could hear the sound of Ma Li’s grinding teeth as she delivered this tirade. “My husband and I almost got a divorce. We only made up after my mother-in-law headed home. Now we take care of our son on our own. It’s hard work, but at least I feel better now.”
“My mother-in-law is very difficult. I don’t want to go home after work these days,” another colleague, Wang Dan, chimed in. Her child turned 1 recently. “The problem with my mother-in-law is hygiene. I tell her specifically that a towel is for wiping the floor and she uses it to wipe our dining table. How am I supposed to have my meals? I can’t even leave my clothes around in my own bedroom. If I do, those items will be gone by the time I return from work. She’ll wash them without asking. But I can’t confront her about these issues directly. Nowadays I head home feeling like I’m a guest. It just doesn’t feel right.”
“I hear you. Forcing people who don’t live together under one roof is recipe for trouble. Xiao Zhang, you need to be careful too,” Old Li said.
For some reason, I felt a fresh wave of nausea even though I was done with morning sickness.
2.
My colleagues’ comments were still reverberating in my head when I got home from work, which spoiled my appetite further. I spaced out on the couch alone. My husband showed up soon carrying a rather heavy package with both hands.
“What did you buy now? Don’t get caught up opening your package. We still need to figure out what to eat for dinner.”
My husband pointed at the package with a smile. “This is our dinner. You haven’t had much of an appetite recently, right? So my mom had my eldest sister send us a bunch of homemade sticky rice dumplings. I’ll cook two for you in a bit. You’re going to love them.”
This sounded too good to be true. Sticky rice dumplings ain’t no dragon meat. I’ve been eating them since I was a kid. What’s the big deal? I put on a gloomy face and complained to my husband: “Are you trying to buy me off with a few sticky rice dumplings? Are you the parasite in my stomach? How do you know I fancy this particular type of sticky rice dumplings?”
“You’ve never tried my mom’s sticky rice dumplings. Who knows—maybe they’re right up your alley!”
“Right up my alley? I’m guessing it’s you who’s craving your mom’s sticky rice dumplings right? And here you are pretending to be nice.”
“Fine, fine. Let’s pass then.” Instigated by my snarky comments, my husband had his hands on his hips and started glaring at me.
My husband has a bad temper to begin with, so I ignored him, sat down on our living room sofa and started watching TV. He turned around and entered the kitchen.
Just minutes later, the smell of cooked dumplings burst from the kitchen. The aroma was different from the sticky rice dumplings I had had before—a touch of seafood and soy sauce, mixed with an appetizing spiciness. It smelled more like the rice noodles braised with pickles I adored as a kid. I like spicy food to start with, so the smell wafting from the kitchen had my stomach growling and my mouth watering. I stormed into the kitchen.
The dumplings in the pot had already shed their frost. They looked different from regular sticky rice dumplings—small and compact rectangular pillow-like items, bursting at the seams of the brown-green leaves they were covered in. They were fastened together not with your typical string but sturdy plant leaves of the same thickness.
These are authentic renderings of the famous Jiangshan sticky rice dumplings from eastern Zhejiang Province, my husband pronounced. When the leaf strings covering the dumplings were snipped and the leaf wrapping removed, adorable mounds of golden-brown sticky rice soaked rich with meat sauce emerged. In my first bite I noticed even though the sticky rice had absorbed the water and grease of the meat filling, they weren’t soggy, tasting a bit soft and crusty instead—very chewable indeed. The veggies inside the dumplings tasted slightly sour, like it had been pickled, the sour taste acting as the perfect antidote to the grease of the pork. Shreds of red chili served as the icing on the cake, sending me straight into seventh heaven.
I wolved down a whole dumpling, followed by another. It felt as if my veins had been cleansed by two tiny dumplings. Pure ecstasy.
3.
My mother-in-law sent plenty of dumplings, so I took some to my parents’ place the next day. As the dumplings cooked in the pot, their scent drifted out of the kitchen.
“What’s that smell? Is it sticky rice dumplings?” my mother asked incredulously.
“Just give them a try. They’re absolutely delicious,” I said while tapping a palm on my chest, pledging my honor.
“Not bad, not bad. They’re quite different from the sticky rice dumplings I’ve had in the past. I never would have guessed there are spicy dumplings. This is my first time,” my mother said as she chewed away.
My dad was silent, although he was already on his second dumpling. “Stop after this one. You have a weak stomach. Sticky rice dumplings are hard to digest,” my mother barked. Dad grunted and smiled, wiped his mouth and dropped his chopsticks reluctantly.
“You know, you can tell how well somewhere is doing economically based on their dumplings,” Mom continued.
“How so?”
“Your mother-in-law is from Jiangshan. Jiangshan is part of the Quzhou region. Quzhou is located in the Zhejiang inland and traditionally is the poorest part of the province. That’s why their sticky rice dumplings come with a slender piece of pork, unlike the dumplings from Jiaxing, which contain a huge chunk of meat. Jiaxing has always been known for its rich variety of produce and prosperous lifestyle. Doesn’t that make perfect sense?”
I refused to back down. “If we go by your logic, then Quzhou isn’t the poorest region around.”
“Where would that be then?”
“Your home province of Anhui. Your dumplings only come with dates. Not a single trace of pork whatsoever.”
“Cheeky girl! Your mother-in-law hasn’t even shown up and you’re already acting out,” Mom responded with a laugh.
“When are your in-laws arriving?” Dad asked.
I fondled my swollen belly and responded. “I’m fine on my own for now. They can come right before the due date.”
“Living with your in-laws is different than living with us. Even if you and Mom get into a massive fight today, the next day it’s like it never happened. That’s because you are mother and daughter. Your in-laws are different. You’re not related to them by blood. Watch what you say. Don’t say the first thing that comes to mind,” Dad said in a somber tone.
“Your daily habits will be different. If you don’t like what you see, don’t unload your complaints on them. It’s hard to take back what you say. You’ll be the first to suffer if you don’t get along,” Mom echoed.
The example of my colleagues and my parents’ painstaking advice zapped my confidence about handling my relationship with my mother-in-law. But what could I do? I responded with a resigned smile.
Still, my mother-in-law’s sticky rice dumplings were quite the magic pill. Two in the morning unlocked my appetite for the entire day. So much so that my doctor warned me to keep an eye on my diet during prenatal checkups, saying I was gaining weight at a slightly alarming rate.
Nine months into my pregnancy, my husband drove back to his hometown to pick up his parents.
It had been nearly a year since I saw my in-laws. My mother-in-law’s face was still round, although her hair had grayed a bit more.
In the early days, I was very deliberate about what I said, ruminating over every word before I opened my mouth. I was terrified the slightest misstep would cause a misunderstanding. Things were fine when my husband were home because he would speak their local dialect with his parents. I was off the hook because I didn’t understand anything. But whenever my husband had to work late, the three adults in the house struggled to communicate.
The atmosphere was downright awkward. I tried to stave off the uncomfortable silences by looking for common ground, but we had never lived together, after all. Whenever I wanted to start a conversation with my mother-in-law, I came up empty. In the end, I kept praising her sticky rice dumplings, saying how much both myself and my parents enjoyed them and so on. The charade continued for some time.
4.
But problems still arose.
Ever since my in-laws took over housekeeping, I couldn’t bear staring straight at our dining table after meals. I’m not sure if it was the fact that my mother-in-law didn’t wipe the table properly or her eyesight wasn’t great, but the stains were still there. The kitchen was an even bigger mess. The once pristine white ceramic tiles were now covered with streaks of oil. I simply couldn’t bring myself to feel the stove counter, which was draped by a thick coat of grease.
I wasn’t going to make a fuss, but it was my home, after all. I had my own standards to uphold. The oil stains on the dining table in the kitchen felt like pimples on my face, tormenting me constantly. I had to resolve the situation.
My first instinct was to ask my husband to bring up the issue with my in-laws, but I quickly dropped the idea. I know however I framed the suggestion, my husband would definitely think I looked down on his parents. Not only would he not act on it, he would lose it and give me a good dressing down. Tell my mother-in-law directly? I vetoed that idea even more quickly. You can never tell what a person is truly thinking. Who knows how she would perceive the comment? She might even think I was plotting against her, like my colleague’s mother-in-law. I racked my brain, finally coming up with what I thought was a good solution. I picked a day when my husband didn’t come home for lunch. After lunch, I told my in-laws: “Mom, after you’re done with the dishes, I’m going to clean the kitchen. My doctor says I’m gaining too much weight and need to work out a bit. Why don’t you let me get some exercise.”
My mother-in-law didn’t say anything. She returned to her room to watch TV after washing the dishes. The volume was much lower than usual though.
My father-in-law broke his routine, however. He didn’t join my mother-in-law, instead lingering on the living room sofa and peeking into the kitchen from time to time. The kitchen and the living room are quite close. My father-in-law sat on the couch monitoring my every move. What was he up to? Did he see through my lie and want to make a scene by showing me his displeasure? The more I thought about it, the more pissed I got. So I played it cool too, lowering my head and going about my business.
Doing housework while hauling a massive bundle around was indeed more taxing than usual. I rested frequently. After a lengthy session, I finally cleared the dining table and the entire kitchen of oil stains. When I finished, my father-in-law was still sitting on the living room couch. I deliberately ignored him and headed to my room with a straight face. I was so tired I fell asleep soon after lied down on my bed.
I woke up to the sound of my mother-in-law knocking. It was already dark. She shouted gently. “Daughter-in-law, time for dinner.”
For some reason, the notion of dinner didn’t appeal to me at all. Perhaps it had something do with doing battle with all that grease in the afternoon.
“Mom, I don’t have an appetite. I’m going to pass.”
“You have to have something. Going hungry is bad for the baby.”
“I really don’t want to eat. Maybe in a bit.” I sounded quite impatient.
“How about I cook you a sticky rice dumpling?”
“Oh, OK!” The dumpling did the trick.
Soon my mother-in-law delivered a cooked dumpling, leaves removed. I soon forgot about my troubles.
Only a few days later did I figure out what my father-in-law was up to that day. After every meal going forward, my father-in-law would take up position by my mother-in-law when she cleaned the dining table and kitchen, barking orders like a supervisor. Whenever my mother-in-law didn’t do a thorough job, he would ask for a redo. It turns out he was watching me from the living the other day to learn my routine, so my mother-in-law could replicate it.
And the reason my mother-in-law turned down the volume on her TV set that day is because she was worried about me. She wanted to hear in case anything happened to me when I cleaned the kitchen.
It dawned on me then I was so petty compared to my in-laws, but they didn’t seem to mind.
5.
I was resting in my room after lunch one Sunday when I heard a bit of commotion. It sounded like my in-laws were quite busy. Out of curiosity I left my room. It turns out they were on the balcony. Also present was a big basin filled with glittering glutinous rice marinated with soy sauce.
“Are you making sticky rice dumplings?” I asked.
“Indeed! We’re almost done with the batch I bought. We’re going to make some fresh ones for you,” my mother-in-law said with a smile.
I was instantly intrigued.
“Sit, have a seat. Standing is too tiring,” my father-in-law said as he pulled up a chair for me.
Apart from the basin of sticky rice, the balcony was also cluttered with a few bottles, leaf wrapping scattered on the ground, string made from a plant, as well as another basin covered with thinly sliced pieces of pork belly the size of tofu cubes. It resembled the setup of a street vendor.
My mother-in-law opened a tall plastic bottle lying on the balcony floor and pulled out a small serving with her chopsticks. “These are vegetables I pickled. Give them a try.”
The veggies were chopped into small pieces and ended up in a deep brown color. They were very tasty, just the right level of sourness. Jiangshan locals like to refer to pickled vegetables as “cabbage.” This particular variety is nicknamed nine-headed mustard. It’s only used for pickling. Fresh nine-headed mustard tastes bitter when stir-fried. Only pickling brings out a lovely sour flavor.
My mother-in-law fries the veggies repeatedly first in a dose of oil poured onto a preheated wok, then mixes in ground chili. The sweet and spicy aroma had me salivating before the veggies were even cooked.
My father-in-law sat nearby washing the leaves used to wrap the dumplings. I helped out by wiping them dry.
My mother-in-law started marinating the pork belly a day ago. Her secret recipe is to use both light and dark soy sauce, which gives the meat both a savory and fresh taste at the same time. The pork skin is preserved, making for a chewier bite.
When the veggies are fried and the leaves washed, the wrapping commences. My mother-in-law folded the leaves and cupped them in her left hand, then added the filling and condiments with her right—a spoonful of raw sticky rice, a piece of pork, a spoonful of veggies, then another spoonful of sticky rice. Then press and wrap a piece of vegetable string over the dumpling a few times, tighten and tie a knot. Thus a cute, solid, pillow-like Jiangshan sticky rice dumplings is born.
My in-laws and I kept busy the entire afternoon amid chitchat and laughter. The dumplings finally made it to the cooking pot and the entire apartment was filled with a light aroma. It was such a delightful smell.
6.
“Your in-laws have been around for nearly a month now, no? How are you getting along?” my colleague Ma Li asked.
“Pretty good. They’re very nice to me.”
“Still, you better maintain your guard. The baby hasn’t been born, so there haven’t been any run-ins yet. They’re also quite free right now. Once the baby is born and issues come up, there’s bound to be conflict,” Ma Li said.
“I agree with Xiao Ma. You have to be careful. No matter what, never argue with your husband in front of your in-laws. When their son is up against an outsider, who do you think they’ll side with?” Old Li said.
In early January of 2015, I gave birth to a 9.5-pound healthy baby boy. My mother-in-law’s workload got even heavier.
“Mom, I want to have sticky rice dumplings.” Less than a month after delivery, I was already rediscovering my appetite.
“That’s a no-go. Sticky rice dumplings are hard to digest, plus mine are spicy. You need to eat healthy during the month after delivery,” my mother-in-law said.
“Can’t I just limit my intake?”
“Nope. You’re recovering from invasive surgery. You can’t eat anything spicy.”
I know my mother-in-law had my best interests at heart, so I just sat tight.
When my parents visited one day, Mom looked at me with disgust. “Most women lost some serious weight during the month after delivery. How come you gained weight instead? You look like you have three chins.”
I fondled my alleged triple chin and responded with a smile: “There’s nothing I can do about it. My mother-in-law is taking such good care of me, preparing new dishes every day. It’s hard to hold back.”
“Meanwhile, it looks like your mother-in-law has lost weight,” Dad said.
“Not ‘looks like.’ She has lost weight for sure. She used to have a round face. Now it’s an oval. What a tremendous hardship it’s been for her,” Mom said firmly.
When my month was finally up, my mother-in-law handed me a bowl during my first meal the moment I sat down at the dining table. In it was a freshly unwrapped, steaming sticky rice dumpling. It turns out she never forgot about my longing for her rice dumplings.
Soon my son turned six months old.
My son was taking a nap in my mother-in-law’s room on a Sunday. I was having a discussion with my husband in our bedroom about switching from breastfeeding to milk formula. I have a long commute to work. Making the trip home to breastfeed my son during my lunch break every day was too exhausting.
My husband disagreed. He believed that breast milk was more nutritious and insisted I keep breastfeeding for at least another three months. I was furious. I felt my husband wasn’t putting himself in my shoes. Yet I was afraid to argue with him—if my in-laws got involved, I was bound to be at a disadvantage. Whispering as gently as I could, I fought back: “I know breastfeeding is best for the baby, but didn’t the doctor say six months is sufficient and the quality of breast milk tapers off after that?” Lo and behold, instead of listening to reason, my husband glared at me and blurted: “All these excuses. Everyone else breastfeeds their babies for more than six months. Why are you the exception? You’re the baby’s mother, not some princess. Not to mention you don’t deserve such luck.”
That was the last straw. I threw all caution to the wind and responded in kind at the top of my voice. We went all out in our bedroom. My husband ended the argument by slamming the door open and yelling: “I’ve had enough. Nine months of breastfeeding. Not a day less!”
Filled with rage, completely oblivious to what my in-laws might be thinking, I slammed the door shut and started pouting in bed. By dinner time, I was still stuck in bed. Then I heard a gentle knock on the door and my mother-in-law’s gentle voice. “It’s time for dinner. Why don’t you come out for a bite?” She didn’t sound like she was mad at me for arguing with her son at all.
I felt a lot better instantly. I got up and headed for the dining table. To my surprise, my mother-in-law had prepared a sumptuous meal. And in my bowl sat a steaming, unwrapped sticky rice dumpling.
My mother-in-law smiled at me—the kind of embarrassed, flattering smile adults flash when their kids screw up and they need to ask for forgiveness. That made me embarrassed instead. I didn’t know what to say.
My father-in-law, who was silent to that point, also avoided mention of the fight. All he did was say in his off-kilter Mandarin: “Eat, eat. The dishes don’t taste as well served cold.”
Little did I expect to receive the compassion and understanding I expected from my husband from my in-laws instead. I was thoroughly pacified. When my husband got home that night, I told him I would stick with breastfeeding for a while longer.
“You finally saw the light? Not going to make a fuss anymore?” my husband asked, convinced he had won the argument.
“Stop gloating. You have your parents to thank.”
7.
By the time my son started walking, it posed an even greater hardship on my mother-in-law. Her chin thinned and her bountiful face had withered. I noticed her face was so thin her cheek bones started protruding. Her facial complexion was even more appalling, a pasty yellow. Her appetite took a major dip. “Mom, are you feeling OK? You look quite pale.”
“I’m fine, just fine,” she said.
I took her word for it and stopped worrying.
On a Sunday around noon, my mother-in-law had nearly finished preparing lunch and we were already seated at the dining table. I had just placed a rib in my son’s bowl when I heard a bang from the kitchen.
I turned my head and saw through the glass door that my mother-in-law’s spatula had dropped to the ground. She herself stooped on the floor, her hands covering her tummy.
“Mom, what is it?” My husband stormed into the kitchen.
My mother-in-law lifted her head. Her face was ghastly pale, her forehead covered with a thin film of sweat. She looked like she was in deep pain. Yet she still managed a smile. “It’s no-, nothing. Just a bit of stomach pain.”
My husband quickly helped my mother-in-law to a chair.
“Let’s have it looked at at the hospital,” I said.
“No, no need.” My mother-in-law waved off the suggestion with both hands.
My father-in-law said something in the Jiangshan dialect. I couldn’t understand what he said, although I was taken aback by my mother-in-law’s reaction. Normally, my mother-in-law defers to my father-in-law on all matters. But the moment my father-in-law spoke up that day, my mother-in-law immediately retorted, also in the Jiangshan dialect. I don’t know what she said, but I could tell from her tone that she disagreed with my father-in-law.
At that point, my husband intervened. “The hospital. Now.”
Only then did my mother-in-law back down.
We took my mother-in-law to the hospital. Luckily, it was just a small ulcer. The doctor ordered us to make sure my mother-in-law took her medication on time and stayed away from cold dishes.
When my husband and I were finally alone, I asked my husband what exactly my father-in-law said and why it prompted a sharp rebuke from my mother-in-law. My husband told me that my father-in-law wanted to take my mother-in-law to the hospital, but she refused. She said they were there to help, not to add to our troubles.
For some reason my face went flush.
8.
Time flew. Soon my soon was 2-plus years old. My relationship with my in-laws remained a major topic of conversation at work.
“We are getting along quite well,” I said.
“That’s because you and your husband haven’t argued in front of them.”
“How is that possible? It’s not like you don’t know about my husband’s wicked mouth. No one can put up with it. We fought just last night.”
“Then how did your in-laws respond?”
“They didn’t. They acted like it had nothing to do with them. They never get involved,” I said.
“Really? I find that hard to believe.”
“Yes, really. They’re even quite supportive when I make plans with friends for a meal and shopping. They never stop me.”
That shut my colleagues up. I could sense a bit of envy. Deep down, I was also somewhat proud of myself. Then my phone rang. It was my mother-in-law.
“Mom, I just finished work. I’m about to head home. What’s up?”
“Niuniu (my son’s nickname) burned his hand. You better hurry back. Hurry!” My mother-in-law sounded very frantic.
“What?” I panicked too. I grabbed my bag and made a mad dash for the door, calling my husband on the way and asking him to head back as well.
I could hear the sound of my son crying the moment I set foot in our apartment.
Amid massive wails, my father-in-law carried my son from the bathroom. My son’s right sleeve had already been snipped open. His right wrist was covered with a myriad of blisters, including two large ones, one of which had already burst. Soon my husband arrived and the entire family rushed to the hospital.
My son was hysterical on the way. Worried about touching his wounds, my husband carried him gingerly in the back seat while I took the wheel. His painful cries were nerve-wrecking. I was tempted to overtake every single car ahead of us and ignore all red lights.
“How did he get burned in such a small flat with two adults around?” my husband asked my mother-in-law on the journey to the hospital.
“Your dad was watching TV. After preparing a few dishes, I put them on the kitchen counter. It was still early, so I started wrapping sticky rice dumplings on the balcony. Niuniu was initially playing in the living room, but somehow he ended up in the kitchen. Soon I heard him crying. When I got to the kitchen, I saw he had toppled the dishes on the kitchen counter. The entire bowl of vegetable soup had landed on his arm,” my mother-in-law said.
“Hot dishes, the vegetable soup must have been quite oily—the temperature must have been piping hot!” My husband’s cheeks were puffy, his tone critical. It wasn’t my place to speak, but I was also furious inside.
We signed in at the hospital and my son has his wound examined. Once the test results came out, I started interrogating the doctor right away.
“I wouldn’t call it a serious accident. It’s just that his skin was breached and the burn was rather severe. It will leave a scar.” The doctor added he wanted to admit my son. My husband went ahead to get the paperwork started.
The word “scar” sent thunderbolts through my head. My son was so young. His life has just begun. And now he was left with a scar that would stay with him for the rest of his life. I couldn’t take it.
I looked at my mother-in-law. It was because of her that my son ended up this way. Oblivious to whether she heard the doctor’s prognosis, I pronounced loudly on purpose: “Niuniu’s going to be left with a scar on his arm. A scar!” My mother-in-law didn’t say anything, which made me think she was playing dumb and pissed me off even more. I was dying to confront her by saying: “Why did you do this to my son? If you have something against me, come at me instead.” But all I could do was sulk in silence.
After the doctor treated my son’s wound, he asked us to wait in our hospital room. My mother-in-law got ready to pick up Niuniu, but I pre-empted her and marched to the hospital room. My mother-in-law followed silently.
When we arrived in the hospital room, I deliberately avoided making eye contact with my mother-in-law and played it cool. My son fell asleep after a while. My husband still hadn’t returned, so I decided to follow up. I blurted to my mother-in-law coldly: “I’m going out for a bit. Please keep an eye on Niuniu.”
When I reached the elevator, I realized I had left my phone in the hospital room, so I turned around. I pushed the door open without announcing myself or knocking. The scene that appeared left me in shock. My mother-in-law sat on the edge of Niuniu’s bed crying, her face buried in her hands.
It dawned on me then that my son’s scar pained her more than anyone else. I turned around and started taking deep breaths. At that point, my husband came scurrying around the corner at the end of the hallway.
“So? What did the doctor say?”
“The doctor said there was gash that will probably leave a scar.”
“What?” My husband flung free from my grip and started glaring and pacing. He kicked the wall, uttered an obscenity and started muttering: “Wrapping dumplings. More dumplings. That’s all she knows what to do.” Then he got ready to storm into Niuniu’s hospital room.
I knew if he went in that instant he would definitely take his anger out on his mother, so I held him back. “Can you calm down? Your mom didn’t want this to happen. She’s your mom.”
My husband shut up but tried to break free from me again.
“Your mom is crying inside. She’s heartbroken too.” I yelled, so I could shake my husband to his senses. My husband finally cooled down, leaning against the wall in silence.
“Niuniu is a boy, after all. A scar is no big deal. And it’s on his arm, not his face. It’s going to be OK.” My husband still didn’t say anything.
“Why don’ t you go in now, but keep your emotions in check. Console your mother. She’s having a hard time too.”
This time I knocked. My mother-in-law was still sitting by Niuniu’s bed. Her tears were gone but her expression was a picture of sadness. I jabbed my husband with my arm.
My husband started speaking to my mother-in-law in the Jiangshan dialect. I couldn’t understand what he said, but judging from the change in my mother-in-law’s expression I could tell that my husband was indeed comforting her. A son’s words are no panacea, but at least they have a soothing effect. My mother-in-law seemed more relaxed.
The next day, I taught my son how to console my mother-in-law when she wasn’t around. The little fella was a quick learner. He started blabbering to his grandmother the next time he saw her: “Grandma, I’m a tough guy. It’s OK if I have a scar.”
“My lovely grandson. What do you feel like eating? Grandma will make it when we go home.”
“Sticky rice dumplings. I want grandma’s sticky rice dumplings.”
“Oh, OK.” My mother-in-law flashed a smile for the first time.
9.
By the time my son started kindergarten, my in-laws got ready to home.
My son happened to need to get a formal portrait around the same time, so the day of his appointment, I invited the whole family to join and had the photographer shoot a family portrait as well.
My husband and I stood in the back. My father-in-law sat in the front with my son on his lap. My mother-in-law sat next to him. Her face was not only filled with joy, but roundness—yes, the bounty on her face was back.
Even though my in-laws have left, the sticky rice dumpling supply in our fridge has never been depleted. Every time we are nearly out, my mother-in-law without exception will ask my husband’s older sister to ship us another 100 by express mail, as if she is a psychic.
A few days before we headed to my husband’s hometown for Lunar New Year this year, Mom tried to stuff some cash in my pocket and said: “This is for your mother-in-law. Can you impose on her to make me some sticky rice dumplings? Hers are the best. I don’t get stomach acid afterward.” I refused with a smile, telling her that my mother-in-law would never take her money.
Sometimes food serves as an invisible string that ties different members of a family together. My mother-in-law’s sticky rice dumplings are precisely that string, binding us together ever so tightly.