Cheese Dumplings

Whenever I eat ravioli, pierogi, or any other dumplings, I'm amazed by the variety of tastes wrapped inside that thin layer of dough. In my culture, dumplings, or jiaozi, aren't merely about flavor. They are the core of Chinese tradition, and the absolute star of the Spring Festival feast.

In my junior year, my 82-year-old grandma flew to America to celebrate the Spring Festival with us. I begged my mom for the last few medallions of dough and made my own filling: pork, cabbage, mushrooms, and one more secret ingredient.

Against my mother’s protest, I added American cheese in the dumpling filling.

What went in the dumplings was more than just cheese. It was three years of replacing chopsticks with forks, replacing qipaos with skinny jeans and sandals, replacing timid smiles with hugs and screams when greeting mere acquaintances. After coming to the U.S., I abandoned my old preferences and tried to negate my past fourteen years in China. My alteration, however, alienated me from my family: while my parents listened to Chinese classics in the car, I put on headphones and listened to Taylor Swift; while they flipped through Chinese TV dramas in one room, I watched Game of Thrones in another. Once, when someone complimented me on my language ability, my parents thanked them with heavy accents and sighed: "See? Only young people can assimilate into a new culture. We’re too old for that." I, too, thought a stark line separated us. Our paths diverged; I was on the road toward Americanization, while my parents stubbornly persisted in their native culture.

However, I didn’t want my beloved jiaozi to follow my parents’ path. These dumplings deserved the same transformation that I went through, and the cheese filling was a perfect example.

At the night of the feast, dumpling soup was served. My cheese dumplings did not go unnoticed: my father’s face twisted, my mom put down her spoon.

Then it was Grandma’s turn.

“Aiyoo, why is this dumpling stinky? My dear, was this filling unrefrigerated for too long?”

Afterwards, everybody burst into laughter while I sat there with a weak smile. My mom sprung to the kitchen to boil more “normal” dumplings. But my grandma stopped her: “No, no! It’s [REDACTED]’s new invention. Maybe I’ll learn to like it if I eat more!” She bit into another one. “Mmm, not bad!”

I was speechless. How could a 82-year-old woman molded by conservative Chinese society be so receptive to my “Americanized” jiaozi? Did she accept them out of love? No, my parents loved me no less. Perhaps it was her age and life experiences that rendered her tolerant of any novelty.

I wondered: perhaps the Great Wall separating me from my elders was not impassible. After my grandma proved that age didn’t prevent assimilation and a generation gap wasn’t inevitable, I tried harder to bridge this gap within my family, and I noticed that, as a result, my parents reciprocated. They encouraged me to volunteer at the town hall for the presidential election although they were apolitical. My father watched the Super Bowl and happily bought a Boston Red Sox T-shirt. My mother learned to roast turkey for Thanksgiving and asked me to walk her through their tax returns.

To first-generation immigrants like myself, cultural exchange is like cooking: you don’t have to abandon one ingredient for another; instead, every chef can blend any ingredients in different ratios to create distinct flavors. My flavor had more cheese than my parents’, but both are delicious in their own way. I no longer hide the Chinese part of me, or perceive my Americanization as a trade-off for sacrificing family relationships. Instead, I am proud of being at the intersection of two distinct cultures. Now, with my family reminding me of my roots, I am more confident to explore other cultures, and to add new ingredients to my jiaozi.