Tomato Soup for the Chinese Soul
When I think of my childhood, I am standing in the kitchen, the heat from the stove leaving my hair frizzy. My bright, curious eyes peer over the kitchen counter, tracking my mother as she prepares a steaming pan of tomato egg drop soup. The click-clack of her knife cleaves a tomato into perfect eighths, leaving the cutting board stained with pulpy red juice. With a sizzle they slide into the pan, joined shortly by a pinch of salt and a splash of soy sauce. My mother never used measurements. When I ask her how much garlic to add, or how much white pepper to sprinkle in, she clucks her tongue at me. “No numbers,” she says, waving a wooden spoon at me. “在心里知道.” You know it in your heart.
Thoroughly confused, I watch as she pours a stream of golden chicken stock and a bowl of cornstarch and water into the pan. “把蛋弄的飘飘的,” she explains, tapping the blue container of powdery cornstarch. To make the egg fluttery. As promised, she adds freshly whisked eggs that form delicate, lacy patterns on the surface of the soup. By now my mouth is watering, and I bounce up and down on the balls of my feet, bowl already in hand. She ruffles my hair, reminding me to be patient, as she adds the finishing touches to the dish. My mom liked to be creative with her soup--some days she would add a dash of 面疙瘩, little balls of flour, or a handful of spinach. No matter what, it was always delicious.
My mother’s tomato egg drop soup became a staple food in our house. Whenever I or my sister came down with a cold, one of us had a bad day at school, or we were simply at a loss for what to eat for dinner, there was always a pan of soup ready on the stove. It became my favorite food, a dependable source of comfort on even the worst of days.
I’m not sure what triggered the shift in her. Maybe it was our first Christmas dinner at an American friend’s house, a parade of foreign delicacies like spaghetti noodles or cold salad. Maybe it was my sudden fascination with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and the pounds of white bread I bought from the local supermarket. Or maybe it was the drive home from a playdate, when my mom, paused at a red light, asked, “Would you like to eat when we get home? I made soup, your favorite.”
“That’s okay,” I replied. “I ate at Sofia’s house.”
Her fingers, lightly tapping the steering wheel, stilled. “What did you have?”
“Her mom made mac and cheese. And potatoes!”
She pursed her lips. “Did you like it?”
“Yep!” I replied, hardly thinking twice about it.
A week later, my mom was suddenly waist deep in American recipe blogs--reading about chocolate chip cookies, tater tots, and sirloin steaks became her favorite pastime. Naturally this new hobby bled into the kitchen as well. The white-tiled room became her laboratory as she whipped up dish after new dish, the familiar jars of sesame oil and sichuan pepper left forgotten on the shelves.
Despite her best efforts, my mom took to American cooking like a fish to boiling water. Every day there was a new blunder, like cookies made with cottage cheese instead of cream cheese, or mashed potatoes mixed with lard instead of butter. One night I walked in on my mother attempting to bake cupcakes. As I watched, she poured some sugar into a mug. She held it up to the light, examining the amount, before pouring it into a mixing bowl.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“It said to use half a cup,” she said, not taking her eyes off the mixing bowl.
“But… you’re supposed to measure it with the measuring cup, not an actual cup.”
She shrugged. “It’s close enough, right?”
I sniffed and turned from the kitchen. “American bakers don’t use close enough,” I retorted, before scurrying back to my room.
The final offense came that winter, when I came down with an awful cold and was briefly bedridden. My mother came to knock on my door, and came in holding a bowl of something salty and steamy.
“Chicken noodle soup,” she announced proudly. “They say it’s the best for colds.”
I poked morosely at the soup, which was chock full of overcooked penne pasta and a soggy green mess of spinach and celery, and suspiciously brown. It was too much, and I burst into tears.
“I don’t want chicken noodle soup,” I cried. “我想要你的汤.” I want your soup.
Wordlessly she took back the chicken noodle soup and disappeared to the kitchen, and returned a few minutes later with a bowl full of tomato egg drop soup. It was saltier than I remembered, so hot it burned my tongue--and it was the best bowl of soup I had ever had.
(written 4/5/21)