Natalie Tan's Book of Luck and Fortune(15)

A snowfall of flowers ushered in her final words, like falling stars in the night garden against a backdrop of golden fireflies. Stray petals landed on my hair and my cheeks. It tickled. A giggle escaped my throat. Miss Yu smiled and held her hands open, catching the petals in heaps to deposit into a large wooden bowl she placed on the table. I followed suit, gathering all of the fallen blossoms until there were no traces of white left anywhere.

“I will dry this and make it into tea. Stop by the shop and I’ll give you a large tin.” She moved the bowl to her right. “Besides that, I’m afraid I do not have any other insights to share. I am only the messenger.”

Three recipes to help three neighbors. How would I know which dishes to cook—or which neighbors? I didn’t know them well enough to even begin to pry into their private lives. If I was being honest, nor did I have the inclination. Where had they been when I needed them? Why should I help them now?

Miss Yu patted my hand. “I’m confident you can fulfill the prophecy and succeed.” She traced one of the lines in my palm. “As I said before, the women in your family possess great strength. It’s how your grandmother survived after leaving China. Strange new world, new people, new language, with nothing but her ability to cook. Qiao’s food brought the community together, and in time, she was able to buy the building for your family.”

I closed my eyes. My grandmother had known her path much earlier in life, but she’d had exceptional culinary skills that I was sure overshadowed my own. Miss Yu’s smile calmed me. “It’s not only the businesses, it’s also the people that are suffering. I have the utmost confidence you will help. You have all the tools to succeed with the restaurant.”

And the solution lay in Laolao’s recipe book. I had to open the restaurant because this was what I was meant to do. I had found my purpose.



* * *





?In the privacy of the apartment, I finally hugged the thick book to my chest. This was an heirloom—a piece of my history that I never knew existed. Laolao, the grandmother I had longed for as a lonely child, seemed more real to me now than she had ever been in my entire life. Reopening the restaurant could only bring me closer to her.

The book contained the recipes I had to cook for my neighbors. But how would I possibly be able to solve their problems?

The supple leather cover was pliant under my fingertips, the shade of cinnamon rooibos tea with a faint filigree pattern tattooed on the front. I traced it with my fingers. The more I rubbed, the more prominent the design became, transforming into ridges and valleys. The fragrance of dishes sizzled in the air: spring rolls, sweet chili prawns, steamed crabs. My stomach growled again.

The recipe book was coming alive.

Laolao.

I turned the page and read the first recipe.





Baby Oyster Omelets



Potato starch

Water

Egg

Salt

Ground black pepper

Bean sprouts

Green onions

Baby oysters


Mix the potato starch, water, egg, salt, and pepper into one bowl. Stir well until it becomes sticky. Administer the following test: take a spoonful and drip the mixture back into the bowl. The viscosity must be like honey: smooth, but not too sticky or runny.

Add the bean sprouts and chopped green onions. Stir until blended. The color of the mixture should remind you of sunshine and the green grass of summer.

Heat the oil in the wok. Using a small shallow bowl for portions, fill the bowl with the mixture, and add five to seven baby oysters per portion.

Pour it into the heated wok. Fry until the edges turn into golden lace, then flip over, wait for half a minute for the other side to cook, then serve with ketchup, hot sauce, or fish sauce.



Note:

This recipe is for the crestfallen, the unsmiling, and the ones who need sunshine in their souls. If a customer has a difficult day, this will help raise their spirits.

I served this to an unsmiling Shao, a young man who worked at the warehouses. I had never seen a person more devoid of happiness. After he tasted the dish, he confessed to me how his wife and children were still in China and he wanted to bring them over. I encouraged him to keep his hope alive for his family. He returned once a week to eat the omelets and to chat. Sixteen years later, his family sat at my counter and ate the very same meal.

I knew this recipe. Ma-ma prepared it every spring. She and I both loved oysters. The aroma of the dish rose from the pages as if the fluffy omelets were cooking nearby. I flipped through the book, unleashing scents of fragrant meals. As I scanned the lower half of each page, I realized that each recipe was like a prescription of sorts to aid people in need.

Miss Yu had mentioned that Laolao was a healer. This must be what Miss Yu was talking about. No wonder Laolao was able to help so many people in her time. All I needed was to figure out what was wrong, and these recipes would act as the remedies so I could help out the neighbors.

I dove into the book, reading, learning, and at times, laughing over Laolao’s anecdotes. My grandmother had been fearless—a pioneer who’d wanted the best for others and herself. My admiration for her was tempered by the realization that Ma-ma might have found it challenging to live with such a formidable force. Despite her delicate temperament, Ma-ma had been strong and stubborn to a fault. A dragon pitted against a stone lotus.