My Mother's Youyanmo Tastes Like Being Eight Again

I. The earthen stove, the dough, and the crisp bite

The big iron pot burned firewood. My mother judged the heat with her hand. She held it three inches above the bottom, paused two seconds, and knew whether to add wood or pull the fire back.

To make youyanmo, she used dead dough. No yeast. She kneaded it until smooth, then rolled it into a thin sheet, almost translucent. The filling was cabbage. She salted it briefly, squeezed it dry, mixed it with sesame oil, and spread it evenly over the dough. She folded the sheet over and rolled it gently with the rolling pin. The filling stayed inside.

Then she pressed it against the side of the pot.

We four siblings gathered around the stove. Our eyes stayed on the pot. We swallowed our saliva. None of us left. The just-cooked youyanmo had a little chew on the outside. Bite down, and there was a crisp crack, then the tenderness of cabbage and the warmth of sesame oil. Sometimes my mother added an egg to the filling. That was practically New Year.

That first bite did something to my face. I closed my eyes. I forgot to chew. All the waiting, all the craving, ended in that one bite.

II. Wild celery leaves and cracklings

A couple of days ago, I went back to my husband's hometown and bought wild celery. I tore off the leaves. My mother-in-law couldn't bear to throw them away. She said, "Keep them. They'll be useful."

Today my mother made youyanmo and chopped those leaves into the filling.

When I ate it, I couldn't tell what it was at first. I only felt a faint, clean fragrance, barely there. It wound from my tongue to my nose. Not as sharp as chives. Not as fierce as cilantro. Fine and scattered, hidden in the filling. It dyed even the cabbage a faint green.

I called my mother and asked. She said, "It's the wild celery leaves."

Those leaves we used to throw away as scraps made the filling taste like something I couldn't name.

Today my mother also added cracklings. The rich fat fragrance of the cracklings met the wild celery's clean scent. The cabbage was tender. The crust was chewy and crisp. One bite, and the mellow fat and the green freshness burst at the same time. The cracklings cut the plainness of the celery. The celery cut the greasiness of the cracklings.

"This is even better than I remembered," I said.

My mother smiled and kept kneading. Her apron was dusted with flour. Her knuckles were a little swollen. Her strength in kneading had not gone.

III. The touch machines can't copy

I stood beside her and watched.

First, dough. Knead it again and again into a smooth dead dough. Divide it into pieces. Roll each into a thin, large round sheet. Meanwhile, chop the cabbage and celery leaves. Mix in cracklings. Add simple seasonings. Stir. A big basin of green filling.

Then spread the filling over the dough. Fold and roll it up. Cut it into pieces. Line them neatly in the electric griddle to cook slowly.

The griddle sizzled. The youyanmo slowly changed color. When the underside was faintly scorched, a home-style youyanmo was done.

The same kind of vegetable flatbread, made by a machine, always misses something. The machine rolls every piece to the same thickness. My mother's hands leave the edges a little thicker. She knows where the heat is strongest. She turns each piece when it needs turning. She makes the first one smaller, because she knows I will eat it standing up.

IV. The taste that belongs to Mom

I grew up watching, so I can make dough foods too.

I used to think it was troublesome. Kneading, resting, rolling, mixing filling, cooking. Every step needs patience. Now I think the trouble itself is part of the happiness. In that trouble are my mother's hands, the childhood stove, the scent of wild celery leaves, the richness of cracklings.

I hope that when I have time to go home, I can make more dough foods for my daughter with my own hands.

Let her remember the taste that belongs to Mom.

Maybe one day, in some city far from home, she will suddenly think of the taste of youyanmo. She will remember the sha sha of the dough being rolled. The zi zi of the electric griddle. The faint sweat on my forehead as I knead.

She will call and ask me, "Mom, what exactly goes into that youyanmo?"

And I will tell her: "Wild celery leaves. And cracklings."

Afterword

Youyanmo is not refined. It is not expensive. It is not even good-looking. It is just dead dough wrapped around cabbage and wild celery leaves, slowly cooked in an electric griddle. It has been the food that appeared when we had little. It is the food that still surprises me now. It has the crisp crack and the soft, warm center.

I bite into it and stop performing. No small talk. No phone. No pretending I am not hungry.

I become again that child by the earthen stove, waiting eagerly to be fed.

That instant, my shoulders drop.

That instant, home.