“吃饭了!” My parents yelled “Come eat!” in Chinese from downstairs to signal that the food was ready. This was the beginning of our everyday family dinner routine, as it was an unspoken rule to always eat dinner together. The majority of dinners we eat are family style: main dishes in the middle of the table with a bowl of rice for every family member. Combinations of meat and veggies along with side dishes and rice makes each plate unique. I waited until my parents lifted their chopsticks before getting my own food as Chinese culture believes the elders should eat first. There is so much more to East Asian food than what we consume.

My dad is often the last person in our family to have grilled pork or bulgogi beef on his plate when we go out to eat Korean barbeque. He is busy tending to the table’s mini grill and serving us tender, marinated pieces of LA Galbi pork (Korean short ribs) as the smokey aroma encapsulates the feelings of belonging and family. My dad is the type of person to always prioritize others, and giving his family grilled meat before himself is just one example.

While my family doesn’t regularly express our affection verbally, we show appreciation through acts of service as our primary love language. Whether it be by bringing me a plate of cut fruit on a bad day or surprising me with Starbucks, one way my parents show their love is through food. Although these acts are silent and small, it doesn’t change how much these actions mean to me. 

Currently, the silence in my house is louder than ever. My sister is at college and my mom is in China, so when my dad yells “吃饭了,” he is only speaking to me. Since my mom usually cooks for the family, my dad and I eat takeout and instant Buldak ramen more frequently. I soon realized that I’d taken dinners with all four family members for granted. I miss the noises of everyday chatter and the sound of vegetables being chopped. Though the amount of people in our house has halved, my dad and I still make an effort to always eat dinner together.

When the entire family gathers at home to celebrate Lunar New Year or the Spring Festival, we all have our own role in contributing to the process of dumpling-making. I have the easiest job of separating the dough wrappers while my dad arranges the meat filling in the dough; my sister pinches the edges of the dough to create the dumpling shape, and my mom is the instructor and overseer of our dumpling creations. While we perform this meticulous, but familiar, process, the kitchen fills with the sounds of a British show of my sister’s choosing or the whistle from the steam of the dumpling steamer. 

One dumpling requires the contribution of each family member, taking around thirty seconds to create and twenty minutes to steam. Once the dumpling is ready to eat, the hard work is forgotten and all anyone can think about are the flavors that will erupt from the dumpling. As happy memories are hastily experienced and dumplings are consumed within seconds, I fail to appreciate what efforts and steps it took to arrive at this moment. During the highs in my life, I frequently forget about the sacrifices my family made for me growing up.  It’s taken each of my family members to help me get to where I am today. Just like a dumpling.