Tastes

THE ULTIMATE COMFORT FOOD

I hauled the stroller up the steps and wheeled it inside. At the counter I ordered nine fat, homestyle jiaozi and sat down to wait. As I stared blankly toward the window, my eyes came to rest on a pair of South Philly meth heads outside, their cragged faces softened by grease smears on the plate glass. One scratched and grimaced, revealing ravaged gums. The other gawked at a pair of women bouncing down the sidewalk with yoga mats and disposable cups from Save the World Café.

In five minutes the dumplings were ready. I took in the sight of the perfect ginger slivers floating in the soy sauce and remembered first learning of the Dumpling Road Across vast swaths of land once connected by the silk trade, millions and millions of people ate variations on the same wonderful dish. The secrets to making them lay in the hands of women gathered together in kitchens, chopping, mixing, rolling, folding and pinching, sharing stories and friendship. As I sank my teeth into the dough, my thinking brain yielded to the waves of garlicky pork umami washing over my tongue. Meat juice ran down the side of my hand. I didn’t bother to wipe it off.

I had spotted my husband’s silhouette from two blocks away, his sleek form gliding toward me on an elegant ten-speed. My pulse raced and my lungs tightened. Too soon Peter was in front of me, expertly balanced on two pedals. My fingers hadn’t traced that fine jawline for over a year. He met my gaze for a second, then dropped his head and shook it from side to side as if disappointed in me. A moment later he rode off without uttering a word or glancing down at Louisa. She slept on in her stroller in tight-fisted bliss, unaware that her dad had been so close. It was as if he had never existed.

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WEDDING DUMPLINGS

Nurgul sprinkled flour on the kitchen table and dumped the hefty dough ball out of the mixing bowl. It landed with a thump. Yeasty meaty smells emanated from the oven, where a batch of savory lamb pies was baking. Picking up a scimitar-shaped knife, Nurgul cut off a dough hunk and rolled it out into a long snake with one hand. From the snake she pinched off smaller pieces of dough, each exactly the same size, and slapped them down on the tabletop. Evelina ran into the kitchen from the other room, where she had been playing with Aisha, Nurgul’s granddaughter. She climbed onto my lap. “Mommy, I need you,” she insisted. “I’m feeling shy.”

“What is it?” Nurgul asked in Russian, looking at Evelina. Her bright grey eyes smiled, glinting like the gold settings of her ruby earrings. She didn’t understand our conversation. We were speaking English. “Nothing serious,” I answered, wrapping my arms around my daughter. Nurgul opened the oven and pulled out a baking sheet of steaming pies. Aisha, three years old, like Evelina, spun into the kitchen on her toes. A wild ballerina. Evelina grimaced.

Nurgul wrapped two meat pies in paper napkins and handed them to the girls. Suddenly bonded, they ran off to play. Nurgul placed a pie on a plate in front of me. The loose skin tightened over her broad cheekbones as she smiled. She enjoyed giving me hospitality. I bit into the dumpling. Juicy and comforting, it warmed me instantly. Chewing rapturously, surrounded by the calming hearth smells of sizzling meat and baking bread, I watched Nurgul prepare the samosas for her daughter’s wedding.