by Jennifer Yen
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By the time I wake up the next morning, Mom’s already left for the bakery. I turn off the alarm on my phone and check the texts Grace sent me overnight. Ice cream, pedicures, a rom-com, and . . . karaoke?! No! I missed out on karaoke. What did I do to deserve this? I toss the phone onto my bed and trudge into the bathroom to get ready. Too bad I can’t scrub FOMO off my brain.
I arrive just as the sun crests over the skyline. From the outside, the shop looks empty, but I spy the thin sliver of light seeping past the drawn curtains. I relock the door after walking in and head straight to the kitchen. Mom’s standing by the stainless steel table nearest to the ovens. She never lifts her head to acknowledge me, focused on the list of bakes for today as she checks something in the leather-bound book beside her. It’s her most prized possession, containing all the recipes she’s created over the years. She misplaced it once for about thirty seconds, and I thought she was going to spontaneously combust.
As soon as I throw on an apron and roll up my sleeves, Mom starts calling out ingredients for me to pull from various drawers. Then, Mom removes some dough from the fridge and plops the giant ball in front of me.
“Red bean buns.”
It’s been years since I’ve stood beside her, but my hands instinctively know the rhythm. It isn’t long before I’m slicing the dough into smaller pieces to roll into balls. I place them on a baking tray and repeat this until there’s enough to cover with plastic wrap and proof a second time. After fifteen minutes, I set the oven to preheat and bring them back out to stuff. Each ball is flattened in my palm before receiving a scoop of red bean paste in its center. It then gets wrapped and returned to the tray. A final egg wash later, they’re ready for baking.
Meanwhile, Mom mixes flour, yeast, and sugar together before combining it with eggs, milk, and water for a second batch of dough. Cutting the whole thing into smaller, more manageable pieces, she begins to knead. This has always been one of my favorite things to do, and I slide one over to my area. I slam the mixture down onto the table.
This is for my ten o’clock curfew.
Dough strikes steel with a resounding thwack.
And this is for having to leave the party early.
I smash the innocent dough into submission.
And karaoke. I still can’t believe I missed karaoke!
The table trembles from the force of the smack, and Mom narrows her eyes.
I smile sheepishly. “Sorry. I got carried away.”
I resume pounding, though with more care than before. After about ten minutes, I stretch it out in the air to check for gluten. Satisfied, I add it to the fresh dough Mom’s prepared.
“What’s next?” I ask.
She goes to the fridge and pulls out two bowls of meat, one minced with chopped vegetables and one dark red and diced.
“Pork buns and char siu bao.”
She takes charge of the pork buns, while I try my hand at the char siu bao. The trickiest part is folding the buns correctly. I wiggle my fingers. Come on, muscle memory. My first one turns out too tight. Filling gushes out from the side before it makes it onto the tray. My second is too loose and leaves a big hole at the top. If I bake it like this, the meat will dry out. Mom side-eyes my efforts.
“Mistakes in the kitchen . . .”
“Perfection on the shelves,” I finish.
Some things never change. I put my practice buns aside to steam later. They’ll still taste good, even if they’re not pretty enough to go on a shelf. When my next bao comes out perfect, I raise it to the sky, triumphant. If only I had a dramatic sunrise and an African choir to serenade me . . .
“Stop fooling around, Liza,” Mom chides. “We’ve got more to do.”
The bao finds a spot on the tray beneath her withering gaze. I continue wrapping until I run out of filling, something that never fails to happen despite years of practice. One of these days, I’m going to figure out Mom’s secret. For now, the extra dough is wrapped in plastic and set aside while I grab a stack of steam baskets off the shelf. I bring them back to the table and line the bottoms of the baos with paper.
Within minutes, carefully arranged baos are ready for their steam bath, spaced in the baskets so they don’t stick. Mom has finished her pork buns and moved on to the brioche. The sweet aroma of red bean alerts me that the buns are ready even before the timer goes off. I pull the first batch out and place them on our metal cooling rack. Another set of trays goes into the oven before the golden-brown buns are ready for their clear plastic wrappers.
We continue baking like this for the next two hours, until the air is laden with delicious temptation. As I stock the shelves, I check out the line already forming outside. I remove my apron, dust the flour off my face, and unlock the door. Customers flood into every corner of the bakery to jockey for their personal favorites. Empty shelves and happy sighs are the only things left in their wake.
I start to upload a pic for the bakery’s Instagram, but pause when I see a comment on my post about Sarah’s party. It’s from Brody.
Next time save me some pizza. Pineapple free.
I grin and slip my phone back into my apron. I really should stop worrying over nothing. He’s just bad at texting.
Mom and I man the store for an hour. Then Tina arrives and takes over the wrapping and restocking. The day flies by, and before I know it, we’re ushering the last customer of the day out the door and turning off our neon open sign. I duck into the back and find Mom taking a quick break on a nearby chair. The day has been so hectic we haven’t had time to properly clean. I rinse off the dirty trays and utensils before loading the dishwasher. As I wipe down the tables, she shoots me a grateful smile.
“So, tell me what you’re thinking about for summer.”
I drop the towel into the laundry bag and lean against a nearby counter. “What about some of the snacks I’ve been telling you about? The ones all the teahouses are making.”
“I don’t know,” she replies. “I’m not a fan of trends. I’d rather have something we could add permanently to the menu if it does well.”
I take a deep breath. “I get that, but some of this stuff’s been around for years and is still popular. Like those Hong Kong egg waffles. My friends are obsessed with them.”
“You and your trendy foods,” Mom playfully chides. “I still remember how you always knew where the animal waffle cake was at the day market.”
For a second, I’m distracted by the memory of the noisy market in Taiwan Mom would take me to for the week’s groceries. Without fail, I’d always go in search of the soft, puffy pastries amid the throngs of impatient customers and stalls bursting with vegetables, fruits, and meats. Then there was the old man who made the most delicious fried chicken—
“Don’t they require special equipment?” Mom continues, interrupting my thoughts. “Plus, I’m shorthanded. And we have the junior baker contest to worry about when summer starts.”
“I bet you can rent those irons. And it’s easy enough to create a recipe for the batter,” I say, doing a quick search on my phone. “I could probably come up with something in a few hours.”
The words leave my mouth before I realize what I’ve done. How did I not see this coming? Baking for fun is one thing, but slaving away in a hot kitchen for free is another.
Mom, expectedly, grins like a Cheshire cat. “Okay. I’ll give these waffles a shot, but if they don’t sell, we stop. Got it?”
That’s it. I’m stuck. If I back out now, she’ll never let me forget it.
“All right, but I can’t start until finals. Plus, I have that trip to New York to see Jeannie after graduation.”
“Of course. School is the most important thing,” she says. “But you should start working on that recipe. We need to have it ready for summer.”
She won this round. I deman
d a rematch.
Chapter 4
Six words. Six words are all it takes to turn my life upside down.
“You should date nice Chinese boy.”
We’ve all gathered at Yin and Yang for Sunday brunch, our family tradition for the past ten years. Dad shuts down the restaurant one Sunday afternoon each month and invites close friends to join us for a five-course meal. It’s his chance to have fun and cook dishes you’ll never find on the menu. Usually, he makes some sort of big speech beforehand, but today, he flashed me a strange look before disappearing behind the curtain.
Too bad I just figured out it was a warning.
Auntie Chen—no actual relation—leans forward. Probably in her sixties or seventies, she has dark, tattooed brows and a powdered face that make her a dead ringer for a Kabuki mask. Even the bright red lipstick adds to the effect, the color cracking as she smiles brightly.
“I help find you good one.”
My jaw hits the table. “Excuse me?”
“Your mama say you date American boy.”
If looks could kill, I’d be behind bars for the one I send Mom. Instead, she plucks a steamed pork dumpling off the plate and carefully balances it on her chopsticks. Could she know about Brody? I sneak a longer look at her. No, she’s far too relaxed. I turn back to Auntie Chen, lips pressed together in the semblance of a smile.
“That was almost a year ago, ˉayí. I’m focusing on graduating now.”
Auntie Chen shakes her head, and my hope for an end to the conversation evaporates faster than the steam off the bamboo baskets in front of me.
“American boy not good. Chinese boy good. They have respect for elder.”
I glance at Dad for support. He’s gulping his way through the corn and crab soup as if it’s the most delicious thing he’s ever eaten. No one else at the table is of any help either. Both Mom and Uncle Chen are busy pretending not to listen with rapt attention.
“Ready for your next course?”
Our waitress freezes as all eyes land on her. Grateful for her interruption, I grin winningly.
“Yes! I’m starving!”
The rest of lunch passes like any other meal. Dad’s experimental dishes go over spectacularly, and by the time we reach the third course, I’m nearly stuffed. That doesn’t mean I’ve let down my guard, though. Auntie Chen is a notorious schemer. When she sets her mind to something, all anyone can do is get out of her way. Sure enough, she starts waving enthusiastically at a family of three who arrived just before Dad closed up for the day.
“Mèimei! You here today too? Come, come! Come sit with us. Plenty of room.”
The couple looks to be around my parents’ age, and they’re with a boy I recognize from school. I realize what’s about to go down the minute our eyes meet.
It’s a setup, and a very public one.
I should have figured this out sooner. The minute she arrived, Auntie Chen insisted we sit at a larger table than usual. Not to mention Mom fussed over my outfit before we left the house. The woman eagerly tugs her mortified son toward our table and shoves him into a free seat. She and her husband settle into the other two before the former dips her head slightly.
“Thank you for being kind enough to include us, dàjieˇ.”
“What a lovely surprise running into you, Mrs. Lim,” Mom greets warmly.
“Yes. Good surprise,” Auntie Chen chimes in. “With your husband and son too.”
Mrs. Lim starts. “Oh, how rude of me! Let me introduce my husband, Mr. Lim, and my son, Reuben.”
“You’ve already met my husband, Mr. Yang,” Mom replies, and gestures toward me. “And this is my younger daughter, Liza. Liza, say hello.”
“Hello, Lim āyí, Lim shūshu,” I offer automatically.
I’m rewarded for my obedience with a jab to the ribs. I scowl at Mom, whose eyes shoot daggers while her lips stay curved.
“You forgot to say hi to Reuben.”
I drag my gaze over to my fellow victim with a blithe smile.
“Hello, Reuben.”
His face reddens. “Hi.”
Oh, he doesn’t stand a chance. Lucky for him, I’ve got no intention of being roped into this. I slip my phone out of my purse and text Grace. Then I prepare to play the game.
When the next course arrives, Reuben’s hand grabs hold of the rice pot before anyone else can react. He dumps a big scoop into his bowl, and then proceeds to use his own chopsticks to pick through the other dishes. It’s hard to say who’s more appalled—Mrs. Lim or Mom. The corner of Dad’s lips twitch as our eyes meet across the table.
Mrs. Lim transfers some vegetables into Reuben’s bowl. “Baˇobèi, you need to eat more vegetables.”
He promptly picks them out and—to everyone’s horror—puts them back on the communal plate.
“I don’t like vegetables. I only eat meat.”
She tries again. “It’s important to eat a balanced diet. That’s what Dr. Dang said, remember?”
He pushes his bowl away. “Screw him. He said I was fat.”
“Reuben, language!” She smiles apologetically at us. “And Dr. Dang didn’t call you fat. He only said you should watch your weight.”
He glowers. “Same thing.”
I’ve decided Reuben would be the first to go in a zombie apocalypse. He’d probably demand they leave him alone because he’s too important to die. The thought makes me giggle, but I swallow it when Mom glares in my direction. The table falls silent. That is, except for Reuben, who spends the next ten minutes chewing with his mouth open. I should feel bad for Mrs. Lim, but it’s too much fun watching Mom’s matchmaking going up in flames. Others at the table, however, are not so quick to give up.
“So, Reuben. Your mama say you go to school with Liza,” Auntie Chen says.
He shrugs. “Uh, I guess so. It’s a big school.”
Wrong answer. A second later, Reuben lets out a yelp and rubs his arm.
Mrs. Lim clears her throat. “What he means is he doesn’t have any classes with Liza.”
“That’s too bad,” Mom jumps in. “I hear Reuben’s an excellent student. All As and plays the viola. So much discipline. Liza could learn a thing or two from him.”
I grit my teeth. She knows perfectly well I’m a straight-A student . . . and I eat all my vegetables.
“Thank you, but Reuben spends too much time playing video games,” Mrs. Lim insists. “In fact, I’ve been trying to teach him how to cook some basic dishes.”
Auntie Chen claps her hands together. “Maybe Mr. Yang teach Reuben about cooking. This restaurant most popular in Chinatown.”
Dad ducks his head to hide the look of chagrin on his face as he answers.
“You’re too generous, Mrs. Chen. We are just lucky to have loyal customers such as yourself.”
“To be honest, Reuben’s more of a sweets person,” Mrs. Lim admits with a small smile. “He loves his desserts. Every time I bring something home from your bakery, Mrs. Yang, it’s gone in one night!”
“I’m so happy to hear that, Mrs. Lim,” Mom murmurs demurely.
“Will you be running the baking contest again?” Mrs. Lim asks. “I heard it was very successful in past years.”
Mom originally came up with the idea for the contest after we watched a season of The Great British Baking Show a few years ago. She was searching for a way to give back to the local Asian American community while promoting Yin and Yang. The competition includes ten bakers from local high schools. Mom keeps the recipes fairly easy to follow and re-create, and the contestants have five days between baking challenges. The winner gets featured in the Chinese newspaper and on a local cable talk show.
“Thank you for saying so! Actually, I’ve got some very exciting things planned for this year’s competition,” Mom stage-whispers.
“And is there a prize for the winner?”
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Mom nods. “First prize is a five-thousand-dollar scholarship.”
“Oh, well, isn’t that lovely, Rueben?” Mrs. Lim’s eyes take on an unsettling glint. “Too bad you don’t know how to bake.”
I cringe. Here it comes.
“Liza’s a wonderful baker. In fact, she’s even won several contests in the past.” Mom peers at me. “I’m sure she’d be happy to give Reuben some lessons. Wouldn’t you?”
I’d be happier dropping dead first, but I bite my tongue. Reuben, on the other hand, doesn’t hold back.
“Baking is for girls,” he tells everyone with a scowl. “Besides, why would I waste time trying to make something I can just buy?”
Oh, this is almost too easy. I prop my chin on my hand, injecting a hint of saccharin into my voice.
“I think all guys should know how to bake. It takes a lot of patience and attention to detail.”
I slide my eyes over to Mom, expecting her to disapprove. Instead, she’s wearing an odd little smile that makes me sit up straight. Meanwhile, Reuben’s eyes are pinned to his lap. Mrs. Lim fumes beside him.
“Reuben,” she hisses. “Your attention should be on the table, not on that phone!”
As if on cue, my cell starts to ring. I hide my grin as I answer it.
“Hello?”
“911 at your service,” Grace chirps. “What excuse are we using today?”
“Hey! I thought we were meeting tomorrow at lunch,” I say loudly.
“Ah, the last-minute project. Got it.”
She raises her voice while I pull my ear away from my phone just enough for Mom to eavesdrop.
“Where are you? We’re all here at Boba Life waiting for you!”
“I don’t know if I’ll make it on time,” I answer tightly. “I’m at lunch with my family right now.”
Dad’s head pops out from behind Mom’s shoulder. “What’s going on, Liza?”
“I was supposed to meet up with a group to work on our final world history project.” I grimace. “I thought it was tomorrow, not today. I must have mixed up the time.”
