Natalie Tan's Book of Luck and Fortune(29)

How could I help my friend? I’d asked her if she needed anything, and of course, she directed me to help someone else. I was more determined now to find something in the book for her. She didn’t need a love potion or more courage. I admired Celia for who she was: kind, generous, funny, stylish, and unapologetic in the way she devoured life. I could tell by the lack of tourists in the area that her business had suffered, but there was no easy cure for that in my grandmother’s book, nor did I expect one to be there.

Luck. I remembered Celia’s rash of misfortune with the shoe and the smashed figurines. She’d mentioned it herself yesterday. A little good karma couldn’t hurt, and it would be subtle enough to give her a boost. After all of the kindness she had given me, this was warranted.

There must be something that imbued luck in these pages. The recipes ran the gamut of vegetarian, fish, chicken, beef, pork, noodles, soups, stews, and desserts. They also spanned cuisines from Cantonese, Sichuan, Shanghainese, and even Taiwanese. My grandmother must have expanded her repertoire. The care and poetry of each recipe was accentuated by its simple instructions and colorful anecdotes.

This book had traveled across the ocean of time—a priceless family heirloom smuggled out of China when Laolao had immigrated to San Francisco. Though it had been too long since it had last seen the light of day, I now knew I wanted to make certain my family’s legacy lived on. My mother chose not to uphold it, but I wasn’t Ma-ma.

The kitten pushed her head against my hand. I had forgotten to keep petting her. I resumed my massage and was rewarded with purrs that sent vibrations across my skin. I’d never known the cure to loneliness lay in feline companionship.

I returned my focus to the pages and found the right recipe for Celia: Laolao’s famous noodle soup. Carrying the book with me, I headed downstairs to the restaurant and double-checked the fridge and pantry for the ingredients. I had everything I needed. It was time to cook.





Noodle Soup



Beef, pork, and chicken bones

Ginger

Star anise

Peppercorns

Onion

Carrots

Dried mushrooms

Fifteen spices [redacted]

Water


Boil all of the ingredients in a large stockpot to distill their properties. Luck takes time to brew. Boil for a minimum of three hours. Take care to skim the surface with a spoon to rid the broth of rising impurities.



Note:

This flavorful broth can be served on its own or with fresh, handmade noodles.

Cook this for those who need an extra boost. Caution, this is not meant to change one’s fate. This broth is to unlock possibilities: to choose the right course of action, instead of the wrong one. Luck can sometimes be interpreted as making the right choices at the right times.

I cooked this for a hardworking entrepreneur with many failed ventures. He was worried about his declining finances and the ability to feed his family. The broth managed to clarify his mind, and in time, he changed his own luck. This isn’t meant to be a cure-all but a push in the right direction.

My grandmother must have been up to her armpits in her neighbors’ entanglements. Meddling in other people’s affairs was akin to painting with lemurs—there was a certain level of patience and courage involved. I wondered if all of her recipes worked the way she had intended. They must have to have earned her such a legendary reputation.

I chopped the ginger root and dropped the slices into the boiling pot as the rising steam bloomed upward, flowering like a cloud. As instructed by the book, I added the list of fifteen spices and ingredients with the precision of a scientist. This was one of my grandmother’s most treasured and complex recipes. Ma-ma had tried to replicate this many times, but according to her, nothing had ever compared to the flavor profile of this soup. I fanned the aroma toward my twitching nose as the broth changed, unifying the ingredients into an intoxicating combination. I dipped my spoon into the pot for a taste and closed my eyes, enjoying all the flavors. Even knowing the components and preparation method, the result was nothing short of extraordinary.

The taste reminded me of one of the rare stories my mother had told me about Laolao. It was said that my grandmother’s famous bowl of noodles had cured a visiting monarch from Europe of her homesickness on a cool February afternoon. The foreign queen, staying in the presidential suite of the upscale St. Francis Hotel, had requested that a bowl of them be delivered every morning for the duration of her stay.

I never understood why Ma-ma had decided to share a piece of my grandmother that day. At the time, I’d been so grateful for the gift that I’d never questioned the motive behind it, but now, I believe it was one of the rare times Ma-ma had showed me that she missed my grandmother. Despite their differences, their complicated relationship must have been based on love after all.

With the broth simmering, my attention turned to making the noodles from scratch. There were no shortcuts in my family’s cooking. Without fresh noodles, a beautiful broth was wasted, and without a sublime broth, fresh noodles failed to shine.

I kneaded the flour with my hands, working, pushing, molding, shaping; aiming for the right consistency where the mixture would lose its stickiness. As the dough rested, I covered it with a damp cloth. It needed to be rolled, then sliced with a sharp, dry knife. Once the strands were cut, I untangled them, allowing them to fall into neat, fist-size piles perfect for single servings. The golden masses reminded me of the hanks of yarn my mother had used to crochet the afghans that were still in the apartment. I laid the bundles to rest in a large metal bowl, sealed it with industrial-strength plastic wrap, and tested the tautness as if it were a drum before I tucked it inside the fridge. The noodles would be ready for throwing into a boiling pot right before serving at Celia’s place.