Mother-in Law’s Dumplings

'Mother-in-Law'’s kitchen was infused with the sort of light which could only be accurately captured by that miracle of Chinese film making - Zhang Yimou. Inside - the ambience was Chinese rustic meets culinary museum as a poignant and pregnant romanticism filled the cooking scent-filled air. I was poised – at the very tip of my metaphorical seat, to engage, for the very first time, in my new family’s ‘Dumpling Festival’, otherwise known as Duan Wu Jie.

 

I tittered a Frankie Howard titter when my new 'mother-in-law' offered me her dumplings. It was a cultural misunderstanding – not the first and will certainly not be the last. At the very last minute I realized that I was the only one in the room getting the joke – the smile on my lips died an ignominious death, the way of all such, and I let the bawdy Englishman in me take a backseat for the remainder of our visit.

 

A plate of small dumplings was set before us. It was being converted into a ‘still life’ which my wife was so painstakingly drawing, but as she did so the ‘subject’ was rapidly disappearing as I snatched sweet dumpling after sweet dumpling, unwrapped and then dipped them into a gula Melaka (palm sugar) sauce. Dripping with sauce, I proceeded to throw each summery coloured delicacy into my mouth with barely room enough for breath. That pile of yellow dumplings (Ki Chang) – so called because of their colour was reducing at an alarming rate – alarming to my artist partner that is, not to me – I was quite happy with the way things were going. I was not deterred by the stickiness of those goodies, nor of the fiddliness of unwrapping the bamboo-leaf packaging. In fact, as time slipped by I was becoming quite adept at unwrapping all things Chinese. 

 

'Ma-in-Law'’s antique fan-cooled kitchen spoke of sundry other worlds. It was enhanced with flavoured teas from Japan, crispily dry crackers from the Americas and, of course, a super-abundance of delicious foodstuffs from the mother country – China. Woks bearing the patina of ages sat beside antique rice-cookers, those rice-cookers sat next to aging hot water boilers bearing antediluvian brands, while gleaming tins of straw mushrooms leaned on other tins stuffed with black bean sauce doused fried Dace.

 

We sat, correction – I sat, and consumed delicious sweet yellow dumplings while dragon-boats bobbed up and down on equatorial waters a few kilometers away and memories of dead Chinese poets haunted the warm air. It was my very first ‘Dumpling Festival’ and aside from a heaviness brought about by over consumption, the day was looking like a great success.

 

That visit, unlike previous visits where car tyres were counted and I was grilled as to my intentions towards the family’s only daughter, was also looking like a great success as Dim Sum followed dumplings and yet more dumplings followed Dim Sum. My waistline – a little dormant over a six month period, began to assert itself onto my (British bought) Bangladeshi leather belt. It was a gluttonous day, a day concerned with 'Mother-in-Law'’s dumplings, of long forgotten delights of Chinese delicacies and, ultimately, the warmth, love and care of families. Schoolboy titters had long since been left in the playground of my memory, and cultural misunderstanding pushed to the side of the plate as the last yellow dumpling slipped with ease from the fork, seemingly dipped itself into the sweet sauce and hastened its way to my waistline. Then, SUV loaded and permanently visiting stray dog stuffed back onto the rear seat - we once more shot down the North/South Highway, back towards the city haze, to suburbia and home.

Dog Days

There was once a sign. It had become weather-beaten and a little dog-eared over the years that it had been posted on that notice board, in a leafy Shanghai park. That black and white sign prohibited dogs and Chinese from entering the area of the park. From the very precise wording, it was quite clear that the park was reserved for foreigners only, despite the fact that Shanghai is in China.

That sign has long since vanished. Shanghai has moved on. Dogs, Chinese and many other nationalities share that once forbidden playground. The sun shines and all may seem well with the world. Yet here, in equatorial Malaysia the vestiges of cultural separation and ethnical misunderstandings yet prevail.

Recently, over teh tarik, I was told this story...

A friend of mine, and his lovely Chinese wife, were invited to brunch with an old acquaintance. It was right across Kuala Lumpur from where they lived, so there was much effort made to get there. The road was tangled with highway and byway, misdirection and dead-ends, yet my adventurous friends navigated well and soon – ok maybe not so soon, but soon enough, arrived at their acquaintances’ door.

The door opened. Their acquaintance beckoned them in. There was a slight look of surprise when she noticed the husband, but quickly adjusted her smile and led them to a table where sat three women. It was a hen party. There were no men. My friend’s husband was gently escorted back outside, in the most gentile of manners, and into the yard. It was explained that he might prefer the garden. Admittedly, it was a very charming garden – replete with water features and green leafy plants, sturdy furniture and enough shade to cool the eternally equatorial sun. But it was, nevertheless, a yard.

 After the initial shock had adrenalin-rushed through his system, my friend’s husband had the distinct inclination to bark. He did not bark, but perhaps barked an internal bark, a hound of the Baskervilles howl, or a werewolf howl to the moon that was then hidden by the bright sun. That urge to converse like a canine was so very strong that it consumed much of his time, sitting on the designer furniture, watching shadow play as a slight breeze stroked the lovingly planted plants and swayed the leaves.

In a thoughtful mood, my friend was reminded of that Shanghai sign. He too was reminded of the fact that both his wife and his ‘host’ were Chinese, and he English. It was an irony, he thought, that he should be escorted out of the house of his host, very much like one of those unwanted Shanghai dogs, or Chinese.

Over time, just when he was beginning to cool and look dispassionately at his situation, his host reappeared with coffee and food. Once again, my friend was reminded of his dog-like situation - he sought for the dog bowl and leash - there was none. There was only the dog bowl and leash in his mind as he surveyed the food and drink. Grabbing at his hand phone, my friend’s husband SMSed his wife, who was inside the house. He told her of his feelings – his kennel-like treatment, the dog bowl and his inclination to bark. They left – all smiles and regrets that they could not stay longer.

He recovered, with no ill effects, save the need to pee on seeing lampposts. Perhaps, in that dim distant leafy lined suburb of Kuala Lumpur, there should be a sign - posted for all to see. Like that Shanghai sign, the suburban Kuala Lumpur sign should be prominent and available for all to see. In clear, concise, writing it should state that no husbands, and certainly no Englishmen would be welcome in that corner of suburbia – giving advance notice of that household’s preferences.

Dog Satay

Despite extant rumours to the contrary, my partner has returned to suburbia and her apartment is still safe, all her belongings are there, accounted for, and not sold off to the nearest pawn shop. I have not run off with her car, money or any of her priceless paintings and/or jewellery. Her dog – whom I have fed and walked ever since her departure, had not been roasted, boiled, grilled, fried or otherwise made into a gourmet delicacy. And, despite us being of two different races our bond together is as tight as it ever was.

Friends and family are, no doubt, well meaning - that is to say they wish my love well, me on the other hand, being new to them and a Gwailo (white man or ghost man) they are not so sure of. It comes as somewhat as a shock, nay a disappointment, to know that I have been and am being watched and judged, literally taken at face value and stigmatized on racial grounds. It comes as shock - because we white people have been so good at doing exactly that, to so many races and peoples, over our long domineering history.

 

Malaysia, truly Asia - where it is advertised that all races live in a harmony as perfect as the durian harvest will permit, is deeply racist. I came across this disharmony a little at a time. Small things like antique slang words for other races - tiny insignificant slur words dredged up from the history of the federal states still have the power to stab with their barbs and innuendoes. Notions that this or that other race is lazy, stingy, smelly, ignorant or simply waiting to rob you blind (apparently), prevail in a country ever being divided along racial or religious grounds.

 

The golden age (retrospective illusion) dictates that twenty-five years ago all was perfect in the world, and therefore by default –Malaysia. The races, when not intermarrying, ate together, drank together, laughed, and joked at pretty much the same things. On the internet we can espy ageing posters of Malays advertising beer, see images of mixed race dances and coffee houses where those eating pork or drinking alcoholic beverages, and those forbidden to by religious laws sit side by side - enjoying each other’s company.

 

Was there racial tension behind those poster smiles and air-brushed advertising – some would have us believe so. Some would argue that racial harmony is no retrospective illusion, but a myth instead. They would debate as to whether it is, or was ever, possible for the three predominant races in Malaysia to get on together, let alone accept a fourth – a white race into their bosom, despite the remarkable evidence to the contrary.

 

Everywhere I look in my little suburbia I see mixed race couples. They, and we, partake of fusion food, and hear a lingo - seemingly a hotchpotch of Malay, English and whichever language the speakers wish to inject into their earnest conversations. Evidence of the coming together of Malaysian races is everywhere, but steadfastly denied by those with a politic to do so. To add to the mix, many white men (Orang Puteh, Mat Salleh, Gwailo) have successfully married into one or other of the races in Malaysia. Some have changed religion to be with their heart’s desire; others have simply adopted leanings towards goat curry and dosai or prawn mee and pau.

 

Clear evidence of the longevity of these mixed race marriages is all around in Malaysia, but more especially within the apartments and condominiums of suburbia, my dear suburbia, where rojak marriages produce mixed race children who sparkle with health and intelligence (another myth). For myself I can only but point to all the successful mixed race marriages clearly evident amidst the professional strata of Malaysian society - where no-one has run off with the belongings or possessions of the other, despite their colour, creed or religion, nor have roasted, boiled, grilled or fried any form of domestic animal either, as far as I know that is – dog satay anyone?