may 06, 2022
the trip from cepheus to costco
anonymous
Cepheus. Ursa Minor. Camelopardalis. Cassiopeia. Lacerta. It’s nighttime, as my mother looks out the window at the stars above Taipei, Taiwan. Out of mere boredom, she reaches for a bowl to make her favorite Chinese chive buns.
Adding flour, yeast, and water, she stirs ever so slowly, wishing to be part of the glittering view for someone to gaze lovingly at. The flour, yeast, and water form into doughy mountains. My mother sits atop them but finds that the rocky landscape is far too difficult and lonely to explore in solitude. After two hours, the yeast causes the dough to rise double its original size. The presence of the yeast unstoppingly evokes pieces of beautiful scenery. Among the erected mountains, trees have grown, rivers flow, and the winds begin to blow. They blow until the shape of a man is formed.
Next, she begins to create the filling of the buns, cutting up chives, cooked glass noodles, and scrambled eggs. Upon seeing the man, the cuts land on her heart – inside, the chives and eggs mix together. The boiling hot glass noodles wrap around her lungs, and she coughs, gasping for air. Her infatuation develops, growing into something more. Love feels like salt, love feels like sugar. It feels like garlic powder, onion powder, white pepper. Soy Sauce, sesame oil, and oyster sauce. It’s an indescribable type of ecstasy, a type of pain. A type of confusion, a type of excitement. Beginning from the chives, she mixes these ingredients together to finish the filling of the buns.
She then divides the dough into smaller round balls and flattens them out, one for each bun. As she does this, she is suddenly overcome with a feeling of relief from escaping from her previous confused state. Her feelings have separated into distinguished ones that she is able to recognize and label. So this is what it feels to love. She wonders what it means to love.
The man steps up behind her, guiding her towards the rest of the cooking process. His hands are defined and his fingers are long. My hands resemble those of his. The air moves aside, making way for his hands that organize the various bowls and cups of ingredients towards my mother. He gently puts the filling into the doughy shape of the buns, and my mother unhesitantly wraps the dough around the filling.
By her hands, I exist in this world in which she created and shaped, but things have changed since then. The dictionary only had so many words, and perhaps they used them up too quickly with no more to say. The words of I love you, and the words of I’m yours. I too, am afraid of using up these words.
Finally, the buns should be steamed for 10 minutes. After waiting 5 minutes for them to cool down, she opens the lid of the pot and takes a bite of the buns. I am what becomes of the bite. The bun now resembles that of a crescent moon.
Costco. Intel. Apple. Target. Walmart. It’s nighttime, as I look out the window at the cityscape of Los Angeles, California. Yet again, the city lights expectedly wave me hello – hiding away the stars I wish to see. Despite this, I find the glimmering, flashy, fast pace signs of factories and corporate buildings beautiful. They’re all I’ve ever known of.
Behind me are the sounds of knives on cutting boards and pops of boiling water. The sounds of my mother and father’s numerous attempts at recreating this recipe perfectly as they did before. I’m unable to shake the feeling that they’ve missed an ingredient or step, but as I eat their newly made buns, they taste fine to me like they always do. I’ve only ever eaten the ones they’ve made.
With each new attempt, the knives on cutting boards get faster. The boiling water gets hotter, and the yelling gets louder. In my ears, I hear the symphony they create – a requiem for Juliet, for Romeo. For Ophelia, for Hamlet.