By: Sara Wan, Guest Columnist
Artwork by Siri Raghunayakula
raw Atlantic shrimp from the ice buckets
in the local California farmers markets
delivered in the morning just hours ago
are shelled and deveined.
chopped green scallions plucked from the backyard,
and grated ginger stinging noses
are tossed in a silver bowl.
added sesame oil, Chinese rice wine, cornstarch
are blended in with wooden chopsticks gripped tight.
a squish rings from the mixture
and a briny scent.
she shells and deveins
the raw Atlantic shrimp.
her knife clanks against the wooden cutting board creating a rhythm
as she chops the green scallions plucked from the backyard,
stinging noses, she tosses grated ginger in a silver bowl
along with sesame oil, Chinese rice wine, cornstarch
blended in with wooden chopsticks gripped tight.
a squish rings from the mixture
and a briny scent perfumes your kitchen.
your grandmother’s wrinkled hands pick up
a delicate layer of wonton wrapper
dusted with flour and chilled from the refrigerator.
a dollop of the mixture goes into the heart of the skin
a splash of water paves its path like a v,
her fingers press the edges together,
the organic filling is concealed,
and the wonton is now completed.
and there you are,
placed by the frail fingers of your grandmother,
in a steaming bowl of broth
a wanton floating
with seaweed, vinegar, sesame oil.
you were birthed from the best ingredients
the most organic
from the bustling farmer’s market
in Xi’an, China,
where the vegetables are bargained over
as gruffs of surrendering vendors blend
with the sound of plastic bags
just outside your grandparents’ apartment.
in that bowl,
you lie,
your filling,
organic deveined shrimp, scallions, ginger, oil,
spill out in small bits.
the authentic chinese culture is rooted inside you.
then,
you are picked up by an American fork
and
you’re consumed.