“Let’s eat everyone!” (Dai gah hor yee sik fahn loh!) (大家可以吃飯了！) 

My grandmother (nai-nai) (奶奶) beats against her wok with a ladle, an army general signalling to her emboldened troops the beginning of a war. Of course, the enemy in this battle is platters upon platters of steaming dumplings. The impetus of this conflict: our rumbling stomachs. 

Chairs creak at the joints as everyone takes their seats around the dark mahogany table. The air is humming with anticipation. Everyone has their chopsticks at the ready, but even after grandmother (nai-nai) (奶奶) announced that dinner was served, no one dares to move an inch, not until my grandfather (ye-ye) (爺爺) sits down at the head of the table. He shuffles over slowly, knowing full well that we were waiting for him. 

“Don’t be so mean!” (Lei ng hou gum seoi lah!) ( 你不要那麼懷啊！) shouts  grandmother (nai-nai) (奶奶), her head peeking out from the kitchen as she throws a nub of scallion root at grandfather (ye-ye) (爺爺). 

With each step my grandfather (ye-ye) (爺爺) took, everyone rises in anticipation, their eyes trained on him. Our ravenous appetites await the signal to attack the glossy dumplings. Grandfather (ye-ye) (爺爺) sits down. We pounce. Chopsticks pierce the air like javelins, landing upon their targets: the opaque white dumplings. 

Chinese vinegar and strips of ginger splatter all over the table as everyone plunges their food into the concoction of liquid sorghum and barley. My auntie (auntie) (阿姨), considering herself a social media influencer, takes myriad photos of the dinner, consuming it with her eyes rather than her stomach. My cousin (biew jeh) (表姐) swats my auntie’s (auntie) (阿姨) phone like a fly, trying to get her mother to stop taking photos and actually enjoy the product of my grandmother’s (nai-nai) (奶奶) hard labor. 

With the feast having begun, the table itself came to life. Burls swirl like currents underneath the glossy finish of the surface. My relatives seem distant across such vast seas, but we are all connected through the land bridges of conversation. I carry myself with a vessel made of my own words and visit each of my relatives. On one island I would share a story, on another I would tell or receive a joke, but I would always get a good belly-laugh before departing to the next destination. By the end of the dinner, I had completed my odyssey across the entire table. 

My grandmother (nai-nai) (奶奶) stands up to make an announcement, 

“Everyone, Ralph is going to America to study, let’s wish him well on his journey!” (dai gah, lum you heem wui huy may gok duhk xu, ngor day ying gouy juk hui sun tie geen hong, hok tsap juhn boh) (大家, 林欲謙會去美國讀書, 我們應該祝他身體健康、學習進步!). 

The whole table swivels to face me, their teacups raised in celebration, initiating my rite of passage to greater career prospects, to higher social esteem, and, most importantly, to maturity. 

***

“ 大家可以吃飯了！” (Dai gah hor yee sik fahn loh!) (Let’s eat everyone!) 

The first dinner back after months and months of being away, away from the place where I truly belong: the dark mahogany table, the safe harbour of home. Everything is the same, my 阿姨 (auntie) (aunt) has already whipped out her phone and is obsessively documenting the dinner. Of course, my 表姐 (biew jeh) (——) is rolling her eyes at her mother’s behavior. 

My 奶奶 (nai-nai) (grandmother) approaches me, her smile grows as she inspects my face. She pinches my cheeks and hands me a pregnant 紅包 (lye see) (——). 

“哇, 你長大了!” (wah, lei dai gor tsai lah) (Wow! You’ve really grown!) she exclaims.

I respond, but my 奶奶 (nai-nai) (grandmother) gives me quizzical stare, as if she’s trying to understand a song in another language. But her benevolent smile returns immediately. 

“美國怎麼樣? 讀書辛苦嗎?” (may gok deem yeung? Duhk xu sun foo mah?) (How is America? Is the schoolwork——?) she asks. Her eyes bore deep into mine. 

I try to form an answer, but my words are just odd fragments of a broken vase, none of them fitting together; it seems I’ve lost most of the shards of my vocabulary underneath the furniture. My 奶奶 (nai-nai) (——), with her stethoscopic ears, notices the faults and rough seams in my speech. Her pupils contract and focus, as if she’s trying to find her grandson, the one that recited Chinese poems with dramatic flair, the one that always proudly announced 新年快樂 to all his relatives, and the one whom she cherished most. She sees a familiar face… but hears a foreign voice. 

Of course, my 奶奶 (——)(——) plasters a smile over her face, but it’s like putting saran wrap over a floodlight, her despair penetrating the transparent smile. She turns her head towards the kitchen, pretending that she left the stove going for too long and hurries away from me, straining the knot that held our familial bond together. 

Each of my relatives approach me with open arms, commenting on my appearance, joking that they’re glad I haven’t turned into an American. If only they knew. I’m fielding questions and comments from left and right, but my ears are like a broken radio, receiving only bits and pieces of incoming transmissions. 

“嘿林欲謙, 成熟了那麼多呀!” (hey lum you heem, sing sau leh gum daw yah!) (Hey Ralph, you’ve ————!) 

“林欲謙, 最近有沒有女朋友？” (lum you heem, jui gun yo mo loy pung yau?) (Ralph! Had any girlfriends ——?) 

Chairs creak at the joints as everyone takes their seats around the dark mahogany table. My 奶奶 (——)(——) brings out platters of steaming dumplings, the same glossy sheen on the skin that was the sigil of my 奶奶’s (——)(——) cooking. My 叔叔 (souk-souk)(——) eyed the food with the same greedy and gluttonous expression as always. Yet, this time, the table, the same place from which my childhood memories had sprung forth, seemed to be growling like a beast. It was an ancient relic that, if touched, would burn me. Before, it was a safe haven and site for jovial communication. Now, it was foreign territory and a stage for harsh interrogation. 

The feast began, and thus, the conversation. 

I try, as I did before, to build a sturdy vessel of my words and reach my relatives. But the burls, once familiar and calm waters, are now treacherous seas with monstrous waves that tear apart my ship. I’m drowned out amongst the sea of voices and no one could hear my fractured dialect. 

Noticing my distant and glassy expression, my 爺爺 (——)(——) tries to throw me a lifeline as I flounder. He asks,  

“林欲謙, 你沒事吧?” (——?)(——?)

I mistake his kind gesture as pointed questioning and, disregarding his voice, I sink.