Every New Year my whole extended family gathers around and makes dumplings. Everyone–uncles, aunts, cousins, kids–helps out to make hundreds of dumplings. I kid you not, hundreds of dumplings for days. Rows and rows of dumplings cover every flat surface we have in the house and there are jokes, laughter, little fights, family drama and good times. It makes for fond memories.
…or it did until I moved to this country. I just feel like I don’t have much cultural roots here at least as far as holidays go. I hate going to New Year’s Eve parties where people get drunk and I try to faint interest and small talk, watch the ball drop or whatever. I don’t like watching the parade (or is that Thanksgiving Day?) and I sure don’t watch Rose Bowl despite the fact that I am a former wolverine. The first and only time I saw the inside of the football stadium was on my graduation day.
I wanted my dumplings. And the rice cake soup. I called my mother for her recipe and she responded with her usual, “I will make them myself and send them to you! Oh, better yet, why don’t I go visit you and make the dumplings right there? I can move in with you too so you can have my dumplings any time your heart desires!” thing. I politely and graciously said thanks, but no thanks. And I got her recipe instead. Here it is:
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