Our Chitalian New Year — Chopstick Tango

F YOU, Snowpocalypse. No one and nothing will stand between my dumplings and me. No one. Nothing.

Dear Heavens,

Will you never cease your reign of terror?

There is the wall of 9ft icicles hanging from the second floor, their tips flirting shamelessly at me through the first-floor kitchen windows, winking refracted sunlight.
There are the Ice Dam Twins (children’s series pending), springing mirroring leaks in the living room all the way down into the garage, a rave of rotting plaster and molding insulation high on H2O drips.
There are the roads so neglected by overworked plows, SUVs engage glancing kisses as they pass, and driving so treacherous that dropping Hubs off at the train station is like navigating a minefield.
There is the mailbox (what mailbox?!), RIP: buried alive under 8ft of snow, our mail on hold until spring.

Do reconsider. Please.
Sincerely,
Wenxiao “Ingalls Wilder” Tiano
Tudor House on the Mass Tundra
February 2015

I am a Wisconsinite in the ways that count: Cheese makes my knees weak. Culver's is my happy place. And GO PACK! Snow and ice and frozen snot don't faze me. Just ask my husband, who might describe my interminable optimism in the face of Snowmygod as unreasonably annoying.

"Why yes, yes I can see that we got three inches of snow last night on top of the 97 and counting, and no, I have no idea where to put it either, and yes, the dams are leaking again, and your commuter train is definitely 85 minutes late again, oh, but look how beautiful the snow is clinging to the trees!"

. . . I could probably turn it down a notch.

But yesterday, Snowmaggedon got me. It got me good. Three inches of wet snow froze overnight into a glistening lacquer, and as we crawled past cars spinning wheels and ostriching in snow banks en route to the train station, my heart and stomach sank.

WHAT ABOUT THE DUMPLINGS?! No shrimp in the house. Nary a nugget of woodear nor water chestnut to be found. Not even a whisper of ground pork (can I even consider myself Chinese?). Plans to Kam Man, the closest Asian grocery store yet 30 minutes drive in the most optimal conditions, had been postponed for an entire week due to weather and road shenanigans, and today was not the day. I am of the Wisco north. Descended from the Mongol hordes. I am fearless and occasionally reckless. I am not suicidal.

But I MUST have dumplings this eve. A Chinese New Year without would shake me to my Chinese core. CNY is THE holiday. Officially a 15-day affair, it is the time when 2 billion-plus passengers journey home from all nooks and crannies of the globe to reunite with their families: the largest human migration in the world. Like moths to flame, we seek the satiation of love gathered in the kitchen, the bliss of communal preparation and shared glutting. As the years of my abstinence from this migration have stretched, preparing and eating this one simple dish--knowing that my family in Wisconsin, in Chicago, in Virginia, in Beijing are sharing this ritual with me--has become a cornerstone of who I am. The happy, humble dumpling, or jiaozi ( 餃子), epitomizes my deepest sentiments for the enigmatic bond between food and family. On this day, it is simply nonnegotiable.

"Necessity is the mother of invention." Truer words could not describe the Great Dumpling Crisis of CNY 2015. I scanned the dwindling protein stock in the fridge, last standing corporals of our weekend run to Shaw's when the roads were yet passable.

Pork chop: Too lean. Unground. Meat grinder still queuing on my Amazon Wishlist.
Sprouted tofu: Slim on volume. Medium firmness. Firmness woefully inadequate.
Ground beef: Greying . . .

UGH. Instead of my pork + shrimp + chive bundles of golden glory, greying. ground. beef. A substitution that almost brought me to the brink of despair.

Almost. I woosa-ed and soldiered on. Because I am a Taurus. Because persistence (and obstinance) flow thick in my veins. Because I am huaqiao (华侨), meaning "Chinese overseas, " and it was mother f-ing Chinese New Year, and I. Would. Have. My. Dumplings.

A peek into the veggie bin: a couple of carrots, a bag of spinach, a box o' baby portobellos.

The haziest flutterings of something were taking shape. Like a dream you try to hold on to, suspending breath and thought to protect the wisps of memory, to shield it from the faintest ripple of disturbance lest it slip away.

Beef in lieu of pork . . .
Shredded carrots for water chestnuts . . . (!)
Sauteéd portobellos for woodears . . . !
Spinach for chives . . . !!

I was gaining momentum, the dumpling was taking off!!! Can you feel it???!

And then. Then,
I
saw
the
Tub
of
RICOTTA.

And then there was light. (Illustration courtesy of What Mighty Contests.) — And then there was light. (Illustration courtesy of What Mighty Contests.)

Beef bolognese + ricotta dumplings would save the day.

It would not be dramatic nor exaggerating at all to say that I felt like Atreyu defeating the Nothing.
A simultaneous tsunami of relief knowing that I would eat dumplings today--tasty dumplings that would not shame my heritage--and a welling of emotion at the sentimental ingenuity of making Italian dumplings for my Italian-American husband upon our first Chitalian (that's Chinese + Italian, yes, it's a thing) New Year as newlyweds.

Dough made.

Filling prepared.

Wrappers cut and rolled.

Dumplings stuffed and folded.

Into the frying pan.

And, finally, dunked in marinara sauce + balsamic vinegar dipping sauce.

We two sat down and picked up our chopsticks, he and I, and I was happy.

Happy to be eating dumplings. Full stop.
Happy that the dumplings turned out to be so clever (if I do say so myself) and delicious.
Happy to have merged the newest part of me with the oldest part of me so perfectly.
Happy that this humble little thing can completely encapsulate my past, present, and future.

If I make you dumplings, it is because I love you.

新年快乐, 恭喜发财! Happiness and prosperity in the Year of the Sheep, dear ones.