My husband and I got married last year, in November. He had plans to pursue a Master’s degree in Agricultural Science in Melbourne and, having dated for five years, we decided that the time was right to begin a new life together.
Before our solemnization, my grandmother gifted me a pair of ear studs. She insisted that I accept it, to ji nian (remember). “I am already 80 years old”, she said matter-of-factly. I also received jewellery from my mother-in-law – she told me she had bought it ten years ago, and was waiting to give it to her daughter-in-law.
It was under the sheer weight of a community’s love and blessings that we got married. Milan Kundera writes, “The heaviest of burdens is... an image of life’s most intense fulfilment.” It was in that instant that I truly understood what he meant.
The passing down of items from the generations that came before me gave the solemnization unexpected weight. But it was good weight. It took away the frivolity of the weddings in media, and imbued the day with meaning and tradition. Having something to remember, to ji nian, the occasion and the people from whom these gifts came, was unbearably precious to me.
My mother accompanied me to Melbourne in my first week to help me settle in to my new life. In the week that she was here, she taught me much. She demonstrated how to market in order to get my money’s worth, her method of doing the dishes in the most economical way, imparted cooking tips... all these she did not teach until I got married.
She was teaching me what her own mother had taught her, and this made something as mundane and banal as doing the dishes feel quietly momentous and heavy with symbolism.
With food, I find that it is the same. When I prepare dishes that are traditionally made by my mother or grandmother by hand, I feel connected to them in some way. It is as though an invisible thread is being strung through all our lives.
It gives me great solace to know that even when the people go one day, lessons and the memories of their food remain. (I would have said, “recipes of their food remain”, but who am I kidding? Asian women do not have recipes. Being shown or taught how to cook a certain dish is the closest one gets to being given something tangible to remember from an Asian cook.)
Exploring the disappearing lexicon of dishes traditionally made by hand, from scratch, gives me a firmer sense of identity. Beyond that, it gives me a sense of place and rootedness, even when I am far from home.
For our first dumpling festival in a foreign country, I resolutely decided to make bakzhang. My declaration drew a mocking laugh from my husband, who was adamant that I would not be successful in my attempt. He talks about how his ahma makes the best bakzhang, a craft that took her decades to master. Still, I was determined.
Over the course of the week, I talked to friends and relatives, researched all I could. What I found was a whole plethora of dumpling varieties – each dialect group had their own distinctive take on the bakzhang.
The Cantonese include split mung beans in their savoury dumplings and treat their sweet ones with lye to turn them yellow. The Hainanese have large chunks of braised pork belly just like in kong bak bao. The Teochews have sweet and savoury dumplings, as well as what they call shuang pin (a dumpling with both sweet and savoury elements).
The Hokkiens value pang (fragrance) above all else, so they stir-fry their rice with five spice and dark soy for a robust aroma. The Nyonya dumplings have a distinctive ‘waist’, alluding to the beauty of their women, and are wrapped with pandan rather than bamboo leaves.
Even within each dialect group, there would be variations. Some Hokkien iterations include dried oysters and lapcheong (Chinese sausages). Some cooks insist that the rice within the leaves can only be cooked in fierce boiling water, other choose the slow steady flame of charcoal. Some braise the pork, other marinate it overnight before a quick stir-fry. Some line the leaves up side by side, others do it end to end. It can be dizzying learning from many teachers, as well meaning as they may be.
Eventually, it dawned on me that there is no standard textbook method to make bakzhangs. How can there be one when this is an art passed down from mother to daughter, each woman adding her own spin to tradition? There are many roads to a good bakzhang but the only route to learn is through many trials – over and over again – until you find your own way.
Bak Zhang
The bakzhangs I made (and the recipe I provided below) had Wex’s ahma’s bakzhang as a reference point. It always comes chockfull with goodies – braised pork belly, dried shrimp, salted duck egg yolk and mushrooms. But what sets it apart is the sneaky knob of red bean paste, wrapped in caul fat, tucked away in a corner. It is the combination of salty and savoury against the sweet and smooth beans that makes this bakzhang a particularly memorable one.
Bear no illusions - bakzhangs are time-consuming and challenging, but learning how to make one is a skill and an artform. Some women of the older generation might not choose not to teach the younger ones or make these at home because of the work it demands - but good cooking is trouble, and a good bakzhang is worth the trouble.
Makes 10
Day 1:
300g pork belly
2 teaspoons dark sauce
1L Chinese master stock (I keep master stock that I reuse each time I do a Chinese braise)
20 pieces bamboo leaves
10 strings
500g glutinous rice, washed
50g shiitake mushrooms (the smallest ones are best for this, though you can certainly use larger ones and cut them in pieces after soaking)
100g red bean paste, rolled into 10g balls
100g caul fat
Day 2:
200ml oil
125g chopped shallot
25g chopped garlic
25g haebee (dried prawns), soaked for 10 minutes
1 tablespoon salt
½ tablespoon Chinese five-spice powder
1 teaspoon white pepper powder
1 ½ tablespoons dark soy sauce
10 salted egg yolks
The night before you want to cook the dumplings, prepare the pork filling by marinating it with the dark sauce for 10 minutes. Season with salt and sear over high heat in a wok. Add 1L of master stock and bring to a boil. Taste the stock and adjust the seasoning – it should be slightly over-seasoned to flavour the pork. Simmer the pork belly for 1 hour or until a chopstick goes through the pork with little resistance, but the pork is not falling apart.
Soak the bamboo leaves, string, rice and mushrooms overnight. Prepare the red bean balls by weighing the red bean paste out to little balls roughly weighing 10g. Open up the caul fat and cut it into squares, large enough to wrap the red bean paste with. Set the wrapped red bean paste in the fridge.
The next day, cut the braised pork into bite-sized pieces. Place the shallots and the oil in a wok and heat over high heat, until the shallots turn a lovely golden brown. Pass the shallots and oil through a sieve. Return the oil to the wok and set the shallots aside. Repeat the process with the garlic and haebee.
Drain the mushrooms, squeezing out excess liquid with your hands, before frying in 2 tablespoons of the fragrant oil. Season the mushrooms with salt. Return the rest of the oil to the wok. Add the drained rice, fried shallots, fried garlic salt, five-spice powder, pepper and dark soy. Stirfry over high heat and adjust the seasoning and colour with more salt and dark soy if necessary. Set aside.
To assemble, you will need the rice, mushrooms, red bean paste balls, haebee, salted egg yolks and braised pork belly. Remove the bamboo leaves from the water and wipe with a cloth to clean the surface.
Wrap the dumplings according to your preferred method (I do it by lining the leaves up side by side, overlapping by about half. I then fold the leaves in the middle to form a cone. Add a tablespoon of rice, then the assorted fillings, finally cover with rice. Fold the top of the leaves downwards to cover the rice. Placing your palm under what will be the base of your dumplings, push the side flaps towards the pyramid. There should be what looks like a pyramid and a pointy top now. Fold the pointy top down towards the pyramid and secure tightly with string.)
Cook in rapidly boiling water for 1 hour, making sure that the dumplings are fully submerged. Unwrap and serve immediately or store at room temperature for a couple of days. Freeze for longer storage.