A Tiger in the Kitchen (34 page)

Add a bit of salt to half a pot of water and boil. Add the
mandoo,
in batches of 12 for a regular-size soup pot, then cover the pot and bring the water to a boil again.

Add 1 cup of cold water, cover the pot, and bring it to a boil a third time. Do the same one final time. Remove the
mandoo
.

To make the dipping sauce: Mix a 2-to-1 ratio of soy sauce to apple cider vinegar. Add freshly ground black pepper to taste.

Acknowledgments

Thanks, first and foremost, must go to my two grandmothers: Tanglin Ah-Ma, who fed me well and whose pineapple tarts inspired this journey into my aunties’ kitchens; and Ah-Ma, who loves all her “smelly puppy” grandchildren with such tender ferocity.

The journey would never have been possible without my parents and sister. Thanks to my father, Tan Soo Liap, for never letting me beat him at Scrabble; my mother, Cynthia Wong, for teaching me to read; and Daphne, for being my partner in crime, confidante, and just about the best sister anyone could have. I miss you dearly every day.

Special thanks to two women who opened their hearts and kitchens to me: Auntie Alice and Auntie Khar Imm, I remain in awe. I am also grateful to Auntie Leng Eng, Uncle Ah Tuang, Uncle Soo Kiat, Ai-Kyung Linster, Auntie Donna, Auntie Hon Tim, Auntie Khar Moi, Ng Geak Tieng, Jessie, Kuku, Matthew, Zachary, Uncle Paul, Auntie Sophia, Valerie, and Auntie Jane. And Erlinda, our trusty sous chef.

To Simpson Wong and Willin Low, two amazing chefs and truly great friends.

To Jeanette Lai, Kevin Cheng, and Regina Jaslow, who have loved me, saved me, and cheered me on for more than twenty years now. I would be a mess without you.

And my dear New York friends for their patience and support during my year of traveling and writing—and, basically, ignoring them: Brian Fidelman, Jesse Pesta, Robert Sabat, Robert Christie, Henry Wu. Greg Morago, I adore you. In Washington, D.C., thanks to Laura Sullivan, Kris Antonelli, Rachelle Pestikas, and Laura Smitherman—I love you all.

I would not be where I am today without the mentorship and teachings of my journalism editors. I’ve had the good fortune of working with a few of the great newspaper editors of my time, and I consider myself lucky to also call them my friends: John Carroll and Paul Steiger. Thanks, too, to my
dalaoban
Marcus Brauchli, whose work and career have been an inspiration. As well as editors Bill Marimow, Tony Barbieri, Diane Fancher, Michael Gray, Edward Felsenthal, Elizabeth Seay, and Felix Soh. Last but not least, to an editor whom I love dearly and who shaped me greatly: the incredible and incredibly sweet Mary Corey.

At Medill, thanks to John Kupetz, Roger Boye, Pamela Cytrynbaum, and the late Dick Schwarzlose.

I have so much gratitude for the Asian American Journalists Association, whose members have offered me support and love for more than a decade. I can’t list everyone but special thanks to Jeannie Park, Albert Kim, Abe Kwok, Ed Lin, David Ng, Victor Panichkul, Charles Price, Mei-Ling Hopgood, Sachin Shenolikar, David Oyama, Charles Christopher Chiang, Randy Hagihara, Joe Grimm, Donna Kato, Jessie Mangaliman, Sharon Chan, Craig Gima, and Keith Kamisugi, who was so very helpful with the launch of www.cheryllulientan.com.

I can’t offer enough thanks to my family at Yaddo, the artists’ colony, where I completed this book. Elaina Richardson, Candace Wait, Mike Hazard, Jim Ryall, Cathy Clarke, and the rest of the Yaddo staff provided the serenity and nourishment that made writing a breeze. And I owe gratitude, of course, to my Yaddo mates, who gave me a bubble of encouragement and invaluable advice during a few very crucial weeks. Your art inspired me; your faith nudged me toward the finish line: John “Nonny” Searles, Nicholas Boggs, Gordon Dahlquist, Lucy Puls, Peter Mountford, Zachary Keeting, Noa Charuvi, Gretchen Somerfeld, Thomas Cummins, Darren Floyd, Silvia Pareschi, Jonathon Keats, Andrew Solomon, Rebecca Pappas, Steve Giovinco, Rachel Cantor, Emily Mast, and Cleopatra Mathis. And special thanks to Robinson McClellan for the gift of PIG.

Thanks to the thoughtful Daphne, Leonard Lee, Jeremy Tan, Ryan Page, and Doris Truong for sending generous care packages to help with the writing. And a big thank you to Ng Aik Wye, the Singapore Tourism Board, KF Seetoh, Aisah Omar, and Auntie Jianab for all their assistance.

Major thanks to Hyperion and the people there who have been a true joy to work with: Barbara Jones, Allison McGeehon, Claire McKean, and my editors Sarah Landis and Leslie Wells.

My deepest thanks and love go to my indefatigable agent Jin Auh and the Wylie Agency. Thank you for loving this book from the very beginning.

And, of course, Mike. Sweetie, I hope I thank you enough every day.

Reading Group Guide

Introduction

It would be enough for Cheryl Lu-Lien Tan to walk us through the many and varied delicious traditional dishes she spent a year learning to cook from the women in her family in Singapore: Tanglin Ah-Ma’s pineapple tarts, or
Bak-Zhang
(pyramid-shaped dumplings with pork and mushrooms wrapped skillfully in bamboo leaves), or
Otak
(a spicy fish mousse steamed or grilled in banana leaves); Auntie Khar Imm’s salted vegetable and duck soup; Auntie Alice’s Teochew braised duck; Auntie Khar Moi’s pandan-skin mooncakes (stuffed with lotus-seed paste). Throughout it all Tan describes the intricate preparation and eating of each meal with such vivid detail, passion, and genuine hunger that she brings us wonderfully close to tasting it all ourselves.

But Tan goes further to weave together a narrative that explores the complicated process of cultivating and defining personal and cultural identity in a time of globalization. As a graduate of an American college and a successful journalist living in New York, she spent the good part of her adult life transcending the traditional roles expected of women in Singapore, especially that of the cook. She speaks English like a Californian, and struggles instead with the varieties of her native languages. She married a man from rural Iowa. But after the divorce of her parents focuses her attention on her responsibilities as the oldest child, she begins to lament the distance she has traveled from her family and culture, and to desire the intimate knowledge of the food she was raised on and the women who prepared it.

A year of visits and idiosyncratic tutorials brings Tan into the intimate kitchen spaces of these women, where she gains not only many treasured recipes but also valuable insight into just how traditional, often laborious home-cooked dishes help create a sense of home and family. Despite the substantial divisions created by geography, generational time, language, economic class, and even divorce, the ancient art of preparing extensive meals for extended family brings Tan back to a place of genuine connection and comfort with the women she moved away from more than a decade before. And far from relegating her to some diminished social position, cooking with these women of great suffering and strength teaches her to trust herself, to relax and have the confidence and command necessary to prepare meals that bring people together and make them happy. All of which can’t help but have us feeling, by the end of her journey, quite full ourselves.

Discussion Questions

1.
What are your memories of food from your childhood? What were your favorites? Were there special family dishes or recipes? Were any of them taught to you?

2.
Tan is eventually moved by a great desire to learn about what she calls “the cuisine of my people.” Even if you didn’t grow up eating it, what is the cuisine of your people?

3.
In Chapter Three, Tan explains that her relatives suggested that “cooking wasn’t a science; it wasn’t meant to be perfect. It was simply a way to feed the people you loved.” Discuss this in the context of America’s current fascination with cooking shows and competitions that portray cooking as extremely complex and all about perfection.

4.
Tan admits early on to thinking that knowing how to cook was “one of those things that weakened you as a female,” but does so in the light of seeing her grandmother as a fierce presence in the kitchen. And later, she refers to herself as a “silly schoolgirl” for avoiding the kitchen. What do you think? At what point, if any, does being responsible for cooking meals become limiting, or even oppressive? Can personal ferocity balance this out?

5.
Tan makes the bold claim that “Home . . . is rooted in the kitchen and the foods of my Singaporean girlhood.” What role does food play in your concept of home? Are there other spaces, or elements from your experience that are the center of your concept of home?

6.
Throughout the book, as part of her online experience baking her way through Peter Reinhart’s
The Bread Baker’s Apprentice
, Tan talks about making many kinds of bread. What breads are primary in your life? What breads from other cultures have you tried? Discuss the long history and cultural significance of bread. Which breads have become symbolic?

7.
What were your greatest cooking moments? Any “COLOSSAL FAILURE[S]” like Tan experienced when trying to make ciabatta? How did each make you think about yourself? About cooking?

8.
In the modern day of vegetarian and even vegan diets, what are your personal rules when unexpectedly asked to eat a meal you know you won’t like, as Tan experiences when confronted with jellied worms? Does courtesy win out, or do you find a way to refuse?

9.
Tan is shocked to find that both of her grandmothers ran gambling dens to survive financially, that her Auntie Leng Eng was an opium courier for her own grandfather, and the extent of the poverty of Chaozhou. How does this family history change the way she thinks about where she’s from? Does it change the way she thinks about cooking?

10.
After cooking
ngoh hiang
with her Auntie Alice and Ah-Ma, Tan tries for the first time a Golden Pillow, brought home by her kuku. This is a very large bun with chicken curry baked into it that is snipped open and shared by everyone gathered around it. What other dishes can you think of that are designed to gather around to share?

11.
Discuss the often-mentioned idea of
agak-agak
. Is it simply the act of estimating instead of measuring amounts of ingredients? Is it about instinct? Does it end up having greater personal implications for Tan? Is it related to the need to know “exactly . . . the details of Every Single Thing” that she admits to in Chapter Five?

12.
In the Prologue, Tan articulates the difficulty of achieving contemporary professional success and remaining in touch with her grandmothers and their traditional recipes. What are the various things necessary for her to take an entire year to offset this sacrifice?

13.
Despite their personal strength, it is clear to Tan in Singapore that she is an exception and that many women, including those of her family, were in many ways limited socially. Where do you see these social limitations? Where do you see strength or transcendence despite them?

A Conversation with Cheryl Lu-Lien Tan

Q: What are your favorite dishes lately?

I often think about what my final meal would be if I had a choice—and I often think about a simple meal of fried noodles, Singapore style, and my mother’s turmeric fried chicken wings. Both items are incredibly easy to make and represent the ultimate comfort food for me. When I’m not craving those—and the whole host of Singapore dishes ranging from my grandmother’s
popiah
to my mother’s green bean soup—I also adore Italian food. I am an unabashed Italophile and have been on a bolognese binge recently, experimenting with recipes from chefs such as Jonathan Benno (formerly of Per Se and now of Lincoln, in New York City) and Heston Blumenthal (of Fat Duck in the United Kingdom). This obsession is not as odd as one might think—there are threads that connect Italian food and Chinese food, after all. Marco Polo did bring the noodle back from China to Italy, resulting in the creation of pasta. I hope to be able to master traditional Italian cooking someday.

Q: Given that you have now had successful experiences in both a modern, professional pursuit and a traditional, domestic one, what insight do you have about how possible it is to balance them? Is the idea of being a “Superwoman” as mentioned at the end of the book an inspiration or a burden?

I think it’s highly possible and can also be very fulfilling to balance the two elements in your life. Part of the reason I began this journey was that I had invested almost all my energies in building my career since I left college and the higher I climbed, the more I realized there was a gaping hole in my life. It was only in my thirties that I realized that the missing piece was my connection with home and all that it represented. Being a “Superwoman” can sound daunting, but it’s also something worthy of aspiration. In my experience, cooking and being able to feed my loved ones well can be a hassle sometimes, but the fulfillment that you get from it ends up feeding you, too. And when that part of your life is nurtured, it fuels you to go forth and conquer the career part of your life as well.

Q: In a world that is constantly trying to sell us new kitchen gadgets, can you describe what was used in the traditional Singaporean kitchen to make all the wonderful food?

When my grandmothers used to make their signature dishes decades ago, they obviously didn’t have access to many modern gadgets—a mortar and pestle would be used for pounding spices, a charcoal stove would be used for wok-frying tapioca flour for cookies. In my aunties’ twenty-first-century kitchens, however, charcoal stoves have become too much of a hassle. Regular ovens are now used if flour needs to be toasted to a specific dryness. Food processors are used for blending ingredients together; an electric juicer is used for separating the pulp and juice in pineapples when making pineapple tarts. And instead of wooden molds for shaping mooncakes and teardrop-shaped rice cakes, festive pink plastic ones are now used instead. One thing remains the same, however; anything that needs to be fried is still done in a basic black wok—I suspect that will never change in a traditional Singaporean kitchen.