On a scalding summer day in 2014, my best childhood friend, Addison, skipped over to my house at noon, as she often did during our carefree elementary school days. I peeked through the sheer curtains of my living room window, and noticed the relentless sun glinting off her golden waist-length locks. I ran over to the door with my exuberant golden retriever, Meiling by my side, and Addison greeted me with a radiant smile. Her dazzling rainbow braces gave her a perky quality. Meiling pounced on her as she rushed toward the snack cabinet filled with Pockey, HI-CHEW, Shrimp chips, and Hello Panda chocolates. She craved the sugary treats forbidden from her home. 

Addison’s ancestry was German and Irish, and she grew up in a family where salt and pepper were the only spices available. When I visited her house, her welcoming parents would serve turkey sandwiches on crustless white bread with gluten-free mayonnaise. Accompanied by the crunch of raw baby carrots, the bland meal was washed down with a glass of two percent milk. Mac and Cynthia, her Dad and Mom, were obsessed with the purity and health benefits of food, while my parents were more interested in flavor and tradition. There were many reasons why I enjoyed visiting her house, but food was not one of them. 

As Addison perched at my kitchen counter, her fingers danced with anticipation, eagerly unwrapping the East-Asian candy and chips. She devoured her treats in no time. Soon my grandparents would arrive with a plan to make pork and vegetable dumplings. Addison had come over that day to learn how to make this traditional Chinese dish. 

In our kitchen, my grandpa (Yeye) set the stage by pulling out a two-foot-long wooden cutting board and four rolling pins. He placed the dough and two kinds of fillings on the counter island. Addison’s green eyes widened in trepidation. My grandparents began giving directions in Chinese, and I translated for Addison so she could follow along. We started by dusting the cutting board with flour to keep the dough from sticking. Then, we kneaded the dough, which was initially sticky and gritty until it became a smooth and pliable consistency. I rolled a chunk of dough into a long, thin piece about the length of my arm. Addison and I alternated cutting the elongated strip of dough into uniform segments. We rolled these pieces into little balls and then flattened them out into delicate circles. With a practiced hand, Yeye took one of our flattened pieces and, with a few deft rolls, crafted it into the ideal circle for dumplings. His movements were precise and swift, a testament to years and years of experience, transforming a simple piece of dough into the perfect base for our filling. He added the filling to the dumpling skin and pinched the corners together. Addison and I stood transfixed, our eyes wide with admiration as we witnessed the skillful fluid motions of Yeye’s hands. Watching him work, we were inspired, filled with a fervent desire to one day mirror his culinary prowess. 

My grandma (Nai Nai) carefully lifted the steaming pork and vegetable dumplings from the pot with a slotted spoon, and she arranged them neatly on a square platter. I took it upon myself to create a traditional dipping sauce for Addison, blending sesame oil, vinegar, soy sauce, and a touch of crushed garlic. Before this, Addison had only ever eaten HEB pot stickers with “Coconut Secret,” a coconut-flavored soy-free sauce alternative. I glanced over and noticed that my grandparents had placed one lone fork among the mass of chopsticks on the table. With anticipation, Addison stabbed a dumpling, swirling it in the aromatic sauce, then cautiously cooled it with a gentle blow before popping the entire thing into her mouth. Her face shone in pleasure as sauce escaped the corners of her lips as she savored the burst of new flavors. Observing this, my grandparents and I could not help but share a look of joy, witnessing the joy our traditional cuisine brought to someone unaccustomed to such tastes. It was a heartwarming moment, a bridge between American and Chinese culture over a simple meal. Addison indulged in so many dumplings that her stomach began to visibly distend beneath her ruffled lilac tank top. As she stuffed her face, a sheen of sweat emerged on her forehead. I thought she was going to be sick. In the end, despite my initial worries, Addison’s stomach remained intact. 

Ten years have passed since that unforgettable summer day, and Addison, now seventeen, is a student at St. Johns, immersing herself in the study of the Chinese language and culture. Although our visits to each other’s homes have become infrequent, we consistently keep each other informed about the significant events in our lives. When we reunite, she remains the same lively and vibrant girl that I remember. That simple afternoon making dumplings in my kitchen with Yeye and Nai Nai has blossomed into a profound admiration and respect for a culture different from her own. She plans to spend the summer of 2024 in Hong Kong. Whenever she returns to make dumplings with us, it is as if no time has passed. Addison now mimics my dumpling-making techniques with ease. 

As the daunting inevitability of college looms, the harsh reality that Addison will not be just across the street is a thought I can hardly bear. Yet, there is a comforting feeling in realizing that the bond we have built over the last decade, through our shared love of food and family will be there forever. Those precious childhood memories have deeply connected our hearts. My family sees her not just as a friend, but as another daughter. I casually stop by and swim in their pool, while chatting with her brother and sister. Like a dumpling, our friendship has been a mix of flavors and memories, always bringing us back together no matter where we are. I believe our friendship will last for a lifetime.