Pouring Flour, A Poem

In the well-lit kitchen,

with the warm sunlight casting its noon rays,

I gather up the ingredients

and place them down on the clean marble countertops

to make chocolate-chip cookies.

I crack open the organic eggs,

measure out the vanilla extract, sugar, baking soda,

and butter. They all begin to pour out their sweet and distinct scents.

When I pour the flour out, and specks of flour

spill on the counter and fly in the air around me,

I can smell my childhood and feel its softness, pulling

me back to a memory in the kitchen.

 

                ~

 

I am balancing on the tips of my toes,

wrapping my fingers around the edge of the kitchen counter,

peering at what my nanny, Yan, is making.

She stops to bring me a pink stepping stool.

Her black hair streaked with grey is pulled to a low bun

and her floral apron is tied around her waist.

She never needs to follow a recipe,

the ingredients and measurements come to her.

The countertops are sprinkled with flour

like fairy dust. Something magical is happening

in the kitchen.

She is making the wrappers for dumplings.

Her hands are covered in flour,

and she is kneading the flour and water with a loving rhythm.

The moldable wrappers never break apart—they listen to her.

 

The flour is everywhere

to keep the wrappers from sticking to the kitchen counter.

Standing beside her, I feel the droplets of water as she mixes it into the dough,

and my fingers leave fingerprints of flour around.

Every time like clockwork, she knows exactly

why I’m waiting.

She hands me a small rolled up yellowy white ball

of flour and water, and I draw the soft dough

to my nose, breathing in the familiar scent,

and I press my fingers into the moldable dough shaping it into a heart.

I never separate the dough in the same way that I never want to be separated from her.

I love the homey smell of the flour mixture; it is tempting

to take a bite, but I know it wouldn’t taste good yet.  

 

Meanwhile, the comforting, rich savory smell of the dough with the meat filling

permeates through the kitchen.

I watch as she gently transports

the filling of pork, leek, and shrimp

onto the wrapper.

I watch mesmerized as she folds and pleats the dumplings,

pressing the ends of the wrapper together as if to keep the filling buried in like gold.

She hands me one and teaches me how to fold it.

But mine never looks as good as hers.

The little dumplings look stiff, but I know they

will soften and warm up once they are boiled.

 

After she boils the dumplings, their opaque color transforms

into an off white with the soft tan of the filling peeking through in the shape

of little transparent coin pouches.

The known smell of the leek in the dumplings enriches our home.

My nanny and I sit at the kitchen countertops and feast on

the steaming warm dumplings dipped in vinegar, devouring every bite.  

                  

~

Ever since she left when I grew up, I never try to make dumplings

on my own.

She never wrote down the recipe.

How did she remember

all those dishes and desserts?

I’ll just stick to my trusty cookies and banana breads.

For now, I’ll mix the ingredients and spill a bit of flour—paying

her a silent homage.