Natalie Tan's Book of Luck and Fortune(67)

“Thank you,” I murmured. “What would I do without you?”

“Your life would be far more miserable,” she replied.

“You’re right, it would be.”

Celia and I made more plans that night. Once we had selected the meal for the Chius, she began to nod off, and I sent her home. I should have been exhausted after what had happened, but I was just awake enough to create the perfect dish for Older Shen.

It was well past midnight, but I had my final recipe. All three were written and placed carefully into Laolao’s recipe book. With that done, I decided to read some of my mother’s journals before succumbing to sleep.


Mother wanted to add a new item to the menu. She wasn’t satisfied with the current repertoire. I told her that her dishes were already famous. She insisted it wasn’t enough.

I still laugh when I remember how she looked that day.

She waved her wooden spoon like a saber, like some warrior woman of old.

“You are only as good as your last creation. You need to grow and get better. Do you think my competitors are sleeping? They’re waiting to capitalize on my mistakes. To be the best, you have to be in a constant state of hunger.”

“Always being hungry sounds like torture,” I said.

“Anything worth having involves some measure of pain and work. Because of this, you treasure it more. Now eat your noodle soup before it gets cold.”



I smiled and closed the book. I wished I had the chance to know Laolao. I would have learned so much from her.

Outside my window, night descended on the city, with its lights obscuring the heavens.

My dreams were fueled with stars that evening: swirling galaxies of wonder, radiant colors with no earthly names, the weightless sensation of traveling through universes with the task of collecting wayward comets and wispy nebulas, showing me the infinite possibilities of my fate.





Chapter Twenty-five





I awoke the next morning energized by my nocturnal reverie. Today, I would start fixing my neighbors’ dilemmas—starting with the Chius’ marriage.

After texting Celia the scheduled time for Mrs. Chiu’s arrival, I started the preparations for the dish. I planned on calling Mr. Chiu with a faux emergency when the meal was almost ready.





Snow Pea Leaves


(Natalie’s Recipe)


Garlic

Oil

Snow pea leaves

Salt

Pepper


Mince the garlic into tiny cubes. Heat the oil in the wok, then toss the garlic in. Watch the color change from pale yellow to gold. This is the indication it is ready. Too soon and it will lack the crispy texture. Too late and it will become bitter. Scoop the pieces out of the oil and set aside.

Rinse the snow pea leaves under cold water. Stir-fry the leaves in the hot wok for about a minute until they wilt into a mountain of emerald. Add salt and pepper to your taste.

Garnish with the toasted garlic on top.



Note:

My mother made this dish for me one Sunday afternoon. We didn’t have much, but it was enough. Nothing gave me more comfort than this humble dish. No other dish reminds me more of home and Ma-ma’s embrace than this.

Cook this for those who are in disagreement. The simplicity of the ingredients will facilitate communication. I served this to the Chius to help them remember the love that was the foundation of their marriage.

Using my mother’s cleaver, I minced the garlic, tapping the knife’s edge against the wooden chopping board to a woodpecker’s rhythm. The pale yellow bulbs dwindled into tiny cubes. I transferred them to a sauce bowl. I rinsed the emerald green snow pea leaves in the sink before placing them in a stainless-steel colander.

The recipe called for only a handful of ingredients: garlic, salt and pepper, oil, and the snow pea leaves. Despite its simplicity, the flavor was profound, and the dish was a favorite of mine. I adjusted the heat of the stove. The temperature was key for success. Too hot, and the dish would burn. Too cold, and it would grow soggy and be ruined. I dipped a chopstick into the drizzle of vegetable oil in the wok. The tip bubbled from the heat—it was ready. The minced garlic took the initial plunge, bathing in the heat, tanning into crisp golden brown before I scooped the pieces out to toss the greens in. With a sprinkle of sea salt and pepper for taste, I continued to stir to avoid burning them. The green leaves wilted, changing into a deeper hue, the shade of moss on the forest floor. The color signaled peak tenderness and texture.

I scooped the cooked snow pea leaves out of the wok and onto the two plates, arranging them over a bed of fragrant jasmine rice, and adding the toasted garlic as a garnish. The dish wore a palette of gold, green, and white.

It smelled delicious. Sometimes, it was the simplest things in life we needed most.

I picked up the rotary phone’s receiver and dialed the number for the convenience store. The dial rotated, making a whirring sound, clicking as each number registered.

“Hello?” Mr. Chiu called out over the line.

“Mr. Chiu, it’s Natalie,” I said. “I need your help. There’s a problem in the apartment. I think I have rats.”

“Aiyah!” There was muffled shuffling on the other line. “They must have come out because of the fire.”

“Please help me. I think I saw a few of them running around. I’m terrified of them,” I pleaded.