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[bobf <bobford79 AT yahoo.com>]

I love chicken and dumplings.  One of my paternal aunts always made a pot 
when I flew home for a visit.  She made them better than anyone.  When I 
lived in South Florida and had many Jewish friends, I learned to eat Matzah 
Ball Soup, which is just a great big dumpling in a bowl of soup.  This 
article is about a Chinese woman's memories of dumplings.  I though it was 
interesting.  There is a Chinese dumpling recipe if you go to the 
link................................................

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My Grandmother's Dumpling Article

»By AMY MA

There was no denying a dumpling error. If the meat tumbled out of a poorly 
made one as it cooked, Grandmother could always tell who made it because she 
had personally assigned each of us a specific folding style at the onset of 
our dumpling-making education. In our house, a woman's folding style 
identified her as surely as her fingerprints.

 Enjoying Dumplings at New Year

For Amy Ma, the Lunar New Year rings in many warm, family traditions, 
including dumpling-making.

"From now on, you and only you will fold it in this way," she instructed me 
in our Taipei kitchen in 1994, the year I turned 13. That is when I had 
reached a skill level worthy of joining the rest of the women -- 10 in all, 
from my 80-year-old grandmother, Lu Xiao-fang, to my two middle-aged aunts, 
my mother and the six children of my generation -- in the folding of jiao zi, 
or dumplings, for Chinese New Year. Before then, I had been relegated to prep 
work: mixing the meat filling or cutting the dough and flattening it.

Cousin Mao Mao, the eldest daughter of my grandmother's first son, had been 
away for four years at college in the U.S. But with casual ease, she 
fashioned her dumplings in the style of the rat, tucking in the creases and 
leaving a small tail that pinched together at one end. Two distinct pleats in 
a fan-shaped dumpling marked the work of Aunt Yee, Mao Mao's mother, who had 
just become a grandmother herself with the birth of a grandson. A smaller 
purse-like dumpling with eight folds toward the center was my mother's. 
Grandmother's dumplings were the simplest of the bunch -- flat, 
crescent-shaped with no creases and a smooth edge. And as I was the youngest 
in my generation, she'd thought it appropriate to make my signature design a 
quirky variation of her own, with an added crimping to create a rippling hua 
bian, or flower edge.

"A pretty little edge, for a pretty little girl," she said.

 
While dumplings graced our tables year-round, they were a requisite dish 
during the Lunar New Year holidays. The Spring Festival, as it is known in 
China -- chun jie -- is arguably the most important celebration of the year: 
It is a time to be with family, to visit friends and start life anew -- and 
eat dumplings.

The length of observance varies. Today in Taiwan, the national holiday 
stretches to nine days -- including two weekends -- with all businesses and 
government offices closed. In mainland China, officials rearrange the working 
calendar to give the public seven consecutive days off, while in Hong Kong 
there are three public holidays and in Singapore, two. Unofficially, many 
Chinese people consider the traditional period of the first 15 days 
appropriate to welcome the new year.



My family celebrated the first three days of the Spring Festival in a 
traditional way: Everyone came "home," which meant to my grandfather's house. 
We were already home -- my father, mother, brother and I lived in Taipei with 
my father's parents, who had moved from China in the late 1940s. Most of my 
father's family lived nearby. On chu yi, the first day of the new year, 
friends came to our house to extend greetings. For chu er, the second day, 
married women returned to their parents' house. The third day, chu san, was 
always celebrated united, as a family. And on each of those days, dumplings 
were the main food served during lunch and dinner. There might be other side 
dishes -- leftovers from New Year's Eve -- but no other food was prepared 
from scratch during the holiday. It was considered bad luck to do any work 
during this time; to ensure a peaceful year ahead, you had to rest and that 
meant no cooking.

Though it isn't known exactly when dumplings came into being, author and 
Chinese food expert Fuchsia Dunlop says jiao zi date as far back as 1,100 
years ago. "In the city of Turpan, a tomb was uncovered that had boiled 
dumplings from the Tang dynasty (618-907) preserved in much the same shape 
with similar fillings as they are today," says Ms. Dunlop.

Many people believe the practice of eating these dumplings on Chinese New 
Year became popular in the Yuan and Ming dynasties, which stretched from 1271 
to 1644, when yuan bao -- gold and silver ingots -- began to take hold as 
currency in China; the dumplings take the shape of those coins. During new 
year celebrations, filling your stomach with edible replicas of ingots was 
thought to ensure a year of prosperity ahead. The packaged bites also 
celebrated a letting go of the past, since the word "jiao" also means "the 
end of something."

Traditions have relaxed: Not every family eats only dumplings for three days. 
They also vary regionally: In the south of China, nian gao, or rice cakes, 
are often served instead of these dough-swaddled morsels at Chinese New Year. 
Still, hefty portions of dumplings undoubtedly remain a big attraction this 
time of year in many Chinese households.

Even now, that initial bite of any dumpling transports me back to our Taipei 
kitchen: the women packed like sardines working on their craft with a 
Zen-like rhythm, the flour-dusted countertops, the air redolent with the 
scent of dough, and the faded brown ceramic tiles on the floor polished 
smooth by countless footsteps over the years.

The great dumpling cook-off commenced each year following Lunar New Year's 
Eve dinner, a family meal of Grandmother's best dishes -- sweet soy-braised 
pork, ru yi cai (10 vegetables tossed together with a soy-sauce vinaigrette), 
and always steamed fish since its term in Mandarin, "yu," is a homonym for 
"plenty." By 9 p.m., the plates were cleared and washed, and the women were 
clustered in the kitchen.

The men, forbidden to enter the cooking area, dispersed to their separate 
corners to talk politics and play dice or mahjong while awaiting the 
countdown to midnight. Every room of the house swelled with festivity as the 
whole family of more than 30 members -- four generations -- gathered for this 
night in my grandparents' house.

Amid the bustle, the kitchen alone had an air of serenity and purpose as the 
women worked through the night. Before dawn of the next morning, there would 
be enough dumplings to cover two large dining room tables and every kitchen 
countertop.

To start, Grandmother unloaded from the refrigerator the large ball of dough 
made from flour, cold water and a dash of egg white (her secret ingredient) 
that she had prepared the day before. Setting it onto the butcher block with 
her plump and sturdy hands, she ripped off two large balls and rolled each 
into a log, starting her gentle kneading from the center and stretching out 
to both sides. The remaining dough she kept covered under a damp towel.

Meanwhile, the rest of the women -- my mother and two aunts and my cousins 
and me -- picked over bunches of coriander and peeled off the wilted layers 
of scallions and cabbages. A liberal douse of salt sprinkled over the cabbage 
drew out the excess water, and the chopped confetti-like bits were 
hand-squeezed to prevent a watery dumpling filling. The butcher knife rocked 
repeatedly back and forth on the ginger and garlic until it was almost a 
paste. Likewise, the vegetables had to be diced as finely as possible so they 
would be evenly spread through every bite of the final product.

Ignoring the slew of innovative options for fillings popular in contemporary 
restaurants -- shrimp and chives, shark's fin and vermicelli -- we filled our 
no-frills dumplings with minced pork. Into the pink ground meat went the 
chopped speckles of vegetables and herbs along with sesame oil, Shaoxin wine, 
salt, soy sauce, a pinch of sugar, white pepper, five-spice powder and an 
egg. Nothing was measured, yet it always tasted the same.

View Full Image

Amy Ma
To celebrate Lunar New Year, everyone went 'home' to the Taipei house of my 
grandparents, Ma Ching-rei, left, and Lu Xiao-fang, right, who passed away 
within months of each other in the late 1990s.
"That's enough mixing," Grandmother cautioned. My mother was using a pair of 
wooden chopsticks to combine the ingredients in large circular motions. 
Grandmother insisted on only combing through the filling in one direction -- 
clockwise -- so as to not over-mix, which would make it tough.

Then like a carefully orchestrated master plan, a natural assembly line 
formed. First, Grandmother cut off equal-size segments of her log of dough 
and then passed them to my mother, who used a wooden roller to flatten them 
into circles, a process called gan mien. Two aunts continued to fashion new 
dough into logs on one end of the kitchen counter, and three cousins lined up 
on the other end to begin filling and folding dumplings. The positions would 
alternate periodically, and makers would move up the line over the years as 
their skills improved. At 5 years old, my job had been the menial task of 
pressing the just-cut dough segments into flat disks so they would be easier 
to roll out, but I had since graduated to a dumpling folder. All together, we 
women stood, each ready to play her part in this culinary theater.

"Every step requires its own kung fu," Grandmother instructed in Mandarin. 
She was short, but her chubby silhouette held the solid stance of a symphony 
conductor. The process was tedious, but a mere mention of serving a frozen 
dumpling from a supermarket would be confronted with a gaze that screamed: 
uncultured, unbelievable, un-Chinese. The matriarch in her kitchen was doing 
more than just cooking; she was training the next generation of wives, 
daughters and mothers as her mother-in-law had taught her.

"Use your palm to control the roller, not your fingertips," she barked. "Keep 
a steady rhythm, consistent like your pulse." The dumpling skins weren't 
flattened in one fell swoop like a pie crust. Each one had to be rolled just 
around the rim and rotated so that the resulting circle was thinner on the 
edges than in the center. When folded in half the two sides met, the dumpling 
skin was uniform in thickness. It was a painstaking task when repeated over 
the span of many hours, and my mother once showed me her swollen palms after 
a night of gan mien.

The amount of meat filling had to be just right. Not too much -- "too 
greedy!" -- and not too little: "too stingy!"

And dumplings had to be folded with both hands. "It's a superstition," 
Grandmother told us. "Women who fold dumplings with one hand won't have 
children. Your right and left hand have to work together to be a good 
mother." Grandmother demonstrated how she used the fleshy part of the index 
finger and thumb to press together the dough. Fresh dough, unlike frozen 
dough, didn't need water to seal the seams. Only a firm pinch.

"Beautifully folded," Grandmother commented on the dumpling of the newest 
granddaughter-in-law, Mei Fang. "But it took you too long to make. What good 
is a wife who makes lovely dumplings if there's not enough to feed everyone?" 
Grandmother asked.

The women smirked at the acrid words -- she had been equally harsh to all of 
them when they first joined the family. Grandmother had taken her lumps, too: 
After she married grandfather, her mother-in-law had harrassed her on the 
ways of making a proper dumpling. Now, Grandmother reigned over her kitchen; 
it was a classroom and crucible we all endured.

"It's better that I am more strict on you girls now," she sighed. "Lest you 
get criticized by someone else even worse than me." My mother looked over her 
shoulder to check on me, her only daughter, and smiled when I gave her an 
assuring nod.

When no one was looking, Grandmother washed a small coin and hid it in one of 
the dumplings to be discovered by a lucky winner, who was said to be blessed 
with extra good fortune for the new year. Despite my best efforts, I never 
chanced upon it.

Working until the early hours of the next morning in the kitchen brought out 
the juicier stories, ones laced with family secrets, scandals, gossips and 
tall-tales, all soaked up by my youthful ears.

"Did you hear? Second uncle's daughter got a tattoo."

"So-and-so's sister is really her daughter."

By the time the echoes of popping firecrackers filled the streets signaling 
the stroke of midnight, hundreds of dumplings, ready for boiling, were lined 
up on the kitchen sheet pans like tiny soldiers pending a final command.

With only the boiling of the dumplings left to do, the women then took turns 
cleaning up and bathing, all the while trailing after their children and 
lulling them to bed. But the majority of the family didn't sleep. The custom 
of shou sui, or staying up all night to symbolize having unlimited energy for 
the upcoming year, was usually followed.

Around 5 a.m., the tables were set in preparation for the midmorning dumpling 
brunch. But there was no counting of bowls or chopsticks. "You're not allowed 
to count anything during the first day of the year," reminded Grandmother. 
"If you don't count anything today, then the amount of possessions you have 
will be countless for next year." So we grabbed chopsticks by the handfuls -- 
some wooden, some metal, all mixed in a pile -- and laid them on the table 
alongside stacks of blue and white porcelain bowls and plates.

Before long, the first doorbell rang, and along with it came the boisterous 
greetings from guests, friends and neighbors. The words gong xi fa cai 
("congratulations and be prosperous") were audible even from inside the 
kitchen, and they drew out the younger girls, who were eager for their hong 
bao, or red packets. These waxy packets stuffed with money were given by 
elders to children as a gift, and the youngest in the house could often rack 
up what seemed to them a small fortune. Their flour-covered fingerprints 
dotted the envelopes as they calculated the year's gains.

At 9 a.m. or when the guest count reached 10 -- enough to fill a table -- we 
slid the dumplings into the stainless steel pot, careful not to let the 
boiling water splatter onto our bare toes, peeking out from house slippers. 
Grandmother insisted on never stirring the pot, and to ensure the dumplings 
wouldn't stick together, she slid a spatula through the bubbling broth just 
once in a pushing motion. Thrice the water came to a boil and each time we 
added more water. By the fourth time, the dumplings bobbed merrily on the 
surface. They were done.

Grandmother fished out the broken dumplings before turning to Cousin Jia Yin, 
often the culprit, in half jest. "Ah...thanks to you, the dumpling soup will 
be especially tasty this year since you've flavored it with all the filling 
that busted out." The casualties were fished out and quickly disposed of; 
broken dumplings are considered bad luck if served. To save Jia Yin's face, 
her father, grandmother's second son, often said at the table, "Dumplings are 
great, but my favorite is still the dumpling soup," ladling up another bowl.

Guests and grandparents ate first and the two large tables in the dining room 
were seated by gender. My grandfather took the head seat at one table with 
his friends, and my grandmother with hers at the other. After they ate, the 
tables were reset and the second generation took its turn, with my father and 
uncles at one table, my mother and aunts at the other. The third and fourth 
generations had less strict table assignments and took whatever empty chairs 
opened up -- it could be two or three hours before it was our turn to eat.

Steaming plates were heaped high with dumplings still glistening from their 
hot-water bath. Diners readied themselves with their own taste-tinkering 
rituals in concocting the perfect dipping sauce -- a combination of soy 
sauce, vinegar, minced garlic and sometimes sesame oil or chili paste. 
Grandmother's special la ba vinegar, marinated with whole garlic cloves, was 
the most coveted condiment.

Before the first bite, everyone gathered around Grandfather, who made a toast 
-- usually with tea though sometimes he would sneak in some Chinese wine -- 
to ring in the new year. Then, he took the first pick of the dumplings -- 
something of an honor among the women, who held their breath in hopes that 
his choice of the perfect dumpling would be their own. It would have to have 
the ideal skin-to-filling ratio, every bite an equal portion of meat and 
dough, and expert craftsmanship -- a balanced and symmetrical shape with 
firmly sealed seams.

"This one looks good to me," my grandfather decided, gently lifting the plump 
parcel with the tips of his chopsticks. It was Grandmother's dumpling, and 
she stood poker-faced next to him, not revealing her triumph.

She remembered a time when her dumplings were the only ones on the platter. 
As her family grew, so too did the styles of dumplings until the plate 
resembled an eclectic family tree, and each doughy pouch carried within it 
the cross-generational memoirs of its maker. The dumpling ritual slowly faded 
after Grandmother's passing in 1999; Grandfather died soon after and the 
family scattered. But every Chinese New Year, I still make dumplings in 
Grandmother's way, repeating her lessons in my head.

"Eat more! Eat more! There's magic in these dumplings," Grandmother would 
say. And she meant it truly.

—Amy Ma is a writer based in Hong Kong.

http://online.wsj.com/article/SB123318569755726389.html