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One journal entry in 300 words, with two paragraphs, first discussing all the essays for week, second on the stories to reflect on your thoughts.

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Approximately 300 words and in two paragraphs, in which you first discuss the essays and then devote the second paragraph on your ideas regarding how/why the stories of the week can be considered to be “Sinophone.”

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Journal entry is logical and effective.

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Understand the readings and deliver insightful ideas

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Ckaj>ttr 2 T h e S e v e n t h Daughter I STILL HAVE MANY MEMORIES OF MY CHILDHOOD IN BEIJING, though I have to admit that they're beginning to blur together, maybe because of my age, yes, but also because my early years were happily uneventful. A peaceful calm existed within our home—I never once heard harsh words uttered between my parents—yet, I se e now how that serenity was deceptive. It masked and protected us from the roiling turbulence that occurred in twentieth-century China, turbulence that would eventu­ ally tear our family apart. Considering the size of our family, we all got along remarkably well. My mother, Sun Shu eh Yun Hui, gave birth to twelve children—nine girls and three boys—over the course of twenty-four years, all of us about two to three years apart. My parent's firstborn child was a boy who died before he was a year old. Next were two girls, followed by a second son, then four more daughters (two of whom were twins), and then their third son. I was next, the Seventh Daughter, and then came daughters Number Eight and Nine, though Nine, the baby of the family, died of meningitis when she was five. All told, ten healthy surviving children. I was born in 1920, (the Year of the Monkey on the Chinese lunar calendar) when my mother was thirty-eight, and seventeen years after the birth ot my oldest sister. Cecilia, age 12, Beijing, China, 1932. CO' Bef foo Cai Ma fus wit like res Ali< of I In he cei Be to From left: Sun (Number Six), Zhen-ji (brother), Teresa (Number Fit'e), Qiao (Number Fhree), Ling th< (Number Four), Ning (Number One), Yi (Number Two) with Ning's daughter, Father, Jin (Number eight) Cecilia (Number Seven), Mother, Yi's husband; at home in Beijing, China. sh CO lik Sc he Sr M. g'| wl Tt 77 9' In the early part of the twentieth century, it was not uncommon to see large Chinese families, but what was rare was that my mother had given birth to all my father s children. He had no concubines, which because of his upper-class social status and traditional upbringing made him an exception amongst his peers. My mother would have considered it impolite to discuss such personal things, but my brothers and sisters and 1 sensed it was a point of pride for her and for my father as well. Born 111 18 78, my father, Sun Long Chiang, was a gentle, scholarly man, who retired from his engineering job with the railway when he was fifty so he could tend his beloved gardens, read, and listen to music. My father was quite progressive in many ways, perhaps the result of his schooling in France, or the fact that at the beginning of the twentieth entury, after the overthrow of the Qing dynasty, many intellectuals of his generation had been tiying to bring Western liberal ideas and modernization to China. As a small example, contrary to the rules of etiquette at the time, he was not hesitant to express his affection and admiration for my mother. This may seem like nothing, but Chinese men were taught to never show pride in their own or their families' accomplishments, considei ing it boastful, and were even expected to dispute any compliment. T h e S ev en t h D a u g h t e r However, if a friend of my father's were to say something flattering mother, my father would graciously accept with a simple "thank you. about my He even went so far as to extend his own compliments at home when we were gathered around the family dinner table. To her, he might say something like, "Yong Hui, you are such a good cook, and this meal was delicious!" Or, to us it might be, "Children, your mother manages the household money so well. We are all very lucky! And manage she did. She was also well educated (at home by tutors, as were most upper-class young women of her time). When she was only fourteen 01 fifteen, she had been forced to take on the enormous responsibility of looking after the finances of her family's textile and flour mills upon the early death of her parents. Because she never discussed what had happened (nor did any of us ever ask), I've always assumed her parents and siblings had died of opium addiction, which was very common in nineteenth-century upper-class societies, but still considered shameful. My mother was very much a woman of her generation, bound both figura­ tively and literally to the old customs. As she tottered around our house, directing the servants, overseeing the nannies, and instructing the cooks, I can't help but think that if her tiny, four-inch-long bound feet must have been a constant—and very painfulreminder of her dutiful link to ancestral tradition. Supposedly, the only disagreement my father and mother ever had (which had happened before I was born, and which had been divulged to me by my two older sisters only upon my solemn promise that I was never to bring it up in my parents' presence) was over the binding of my Number One sister's feet. In 1903, when my sister N.ng was born, most females in Ch.na were still having their feet broken and wrapped in bandages according to a thousand-year-old custom, so that they resembled lotus buds, or "golden lily blooms." Binding would usually begin between five and seven years of age, when a young girl's bones were still fairly soft and malleable. The toes were folded down under the ball of the foot and the arch folded in half, then the whole foot was wrapped tightly in gauze bandages so it would essentially stop growing. The smaller the foot, the more desirable the woman, and thus the more marriageable she would be. It was an unbelievably painful and lengthy process, and often girls died from the resulting infection. As my sisters told the story, when my mother said to my father that the time had come to call the foot binder for five-year-old N.ng, my father absolutely forbade it. "But Yung Xiao" (my father's "unofficial" or familiar name, for which there is The Seventh Daughter 49 COOKI Befort no Western equivalent), "what man of means would want to marry a w oman with the food shovel-sized feet of a peasant farmer?" Canto To which he replied, "Yong Hui, 1 would rather support all my daughters until Mand the end of their days than have them suffer the way you have. I want my daughters to fusing be able to walk about in the world on the feet God gave them." with ii I guess that must have been the end of the discussion, because none ot my likes c father's daughters had bound feet. We ran, danced, played tennis, and ice-skated. By restai the 1930s, except in all but the most rural areas, the custom of foot binding became a Alice thing of the past. of ree # # # In Th> When I was four years old, our family moved from my parents' hometown of Wuxi. her n near Shanghai, to Beijing, the capital of China. In those days it was highly unusual centi foi people to travel between towns even a few kilometers apart, much Beijir less uproot an entire family with ten children and move from one province to another. My parents, to su the r< however, were drawn to the capital because of its intellectual and cultural offerings. show In Beijing, they could indulge their passions for opera, music, and fine dining, cook as s end their children to the best private schools and universities. An added incentive like f was that my father's two sisters had settled there, and he wanted all our as families well to be ear one another. 1 ca n only imagine what a spectacle it must have been loading up the Soup cars full ot furnishings and belongings, plus the six motorcars her carrying my parent nine siblings, nannies, servants, dogs, cats, and birds for the big trek to Beijing. Smo , I still clearly recall, as if it were ;yesterday, the* sense ofi security I felt whenever v j v v w u s v t u i u j » 4 V " u_ „ , offhe Mad the rickshaw boy who took us to and from school every day pulled up in front girl v enormous red gates to our walled compound in Beijing. Our home was one of of nra who "heyuan, or courtyard houses, which, with their perimeters of high walls, forn Thrc maze of narrow alleys called hutongs that branched out from the Imperial Pah The Alth "Tr810115 grar • "g . WaS t0° youn8 to palacZanS°n sixteenth^ nClghb°rhood to the east of the capital, ours was larger than m< remember the house in Wuxi, I knew our old home pa h°USe' WhiGh' t0 palace7that took It had'fif* ^ 1 mm i S t e r t0 separated by elaborately j°°'11S '» " wasn't a "house" at all. It * «P an entire city block and had been built in °ne S1X of h t e la s t e m p e r o r s of t h e Ming dynasty. bathrooms in seven parallel buildings, * Y andscaped courtyards with raised beds filled with an enorm 50 The Seventh Daughter variety of trees, shrubs, and flowers. Once past the red entrance gates, you were met by another wall before you entered the first courtyard (it was considered good feng sltui to not see the interior of the house upon entrance). The first building housed the male servants, and in the last were the female servants, next to the kitchen. In the other buildings were the children's quarters (with rooms for their nannies), guest lodging, and then the three main buildings with my parents' bedroom, the formal living rooms, and the dining room the most important room of our house. Though she was short, wide, and hobbled by her deformed feet, my mother ruled our house like a general. But it was in the kitchen—and by extension, of course, the dining room—that she was truly a force to be reckoned with. Both Old Cook, who came with us from Wuxi and specialized in the Shanghai food of my parent's native province, and Young Cook, whom my parents hired in Beijing and who cooked northern-style dishes, knew without question who was boss. While my mother was so short she needed a stool to stand on to see into the pots cooking on the stove, she ran the kitchen with absolute authority. Like all upper-class Chinese women of her time, she did not actually cook. (There were times, though, that 1 w ould find my mother seated at the dining table—she could not stand for long—stringing beans, or pleating dumplings.) Instead, she instructed her chefs as to how she wanted things done. This included pickling meat and drying vegetables, as well as making her own soy sauce, a few bottles of which contained shrimp roe—though those are the ones she brought out only for special occasions. My mother, however, was different from most of her peers because not only was she constantly in the kitchen overseeing the chefs, she had impeccable taste, a point almost everyone who had ever eaten at our table agreed upon. In fact, the true definition of punishment for any of her children was to be denied her food (which became really clear to me later during some very difficult circumstances). Early on, my siblings and I learned that one of the things she demanded was punctuality. If we were late arriving to the dinner table without a good explanation (she was autocratic, but not unreasonable), we would be forced to spend the entire meal in the corner, driven crazy by the aromas of soy, ginger, garlic, and spices—truly more hungry than humiliated. My mother was a perfectionist and endlessly critical, something that became a bit of a family joke. In the back seat of the car, on the way home from a meal The Seventh Daughter 51 COOl Befo at a restaurant or the home of friends or family, we children couldn't wait for my to food mother start in. Cant "Well, that was a good dinner." Pause. We counted the seconds. But, not their Man best. The bao dough was much too thick." Another pause. "The meat was also too fusir chewy and too salty." Although there was a part of me that felt .1 little bad t or the with cooks who were on the receiving end of my mother's barbs, 1 listened intently to alt likes of her criticisms and then usually smiled in secret agreement with her. rest. We all waited for the next assault, the harshest criticism of all. "And thesoup.lt Alic« had no flavor and was cold by the time they served it." The worst thing of r« yo u could say about a Chinese meal is that someone screwed up the soup. In T $ $ her cen In American homes, most family interactions tend to take place in the kitchen, but i Beij upper-class Chinese homes such as ours, the kitchen was strictly to s off -limits to all but senior family members—no children allowed. There was 110 such thing as g athering the around the TV in the den, either. Our family life took place in the she room. On dining weekends, it was common for my parents to entertain, both for lunch and dinner, but coc on weekdays we routinely gathered in the dining room, morning and night, around like the huge circular rosewood table that my mother designed to seat fo urteen people- F ° r Soi banquets and large family gatherings, the dining room accommodated hei one or t wo oth er tables that could be brought in for the occasion. Srr Mornings, as in most busy households, were choreographed chaos, sdth everyone going m different directions and trying not to be late. Usually m y ° lder gir sisters Ning, Yi, and Qiao, and brother Xiu Ji, were usually already out of the house wf and on their way to school by the time my sisters, twins Ling and Qin, Sun, andj.ng- Th and brother Zhen Ji, and I had been roused at six A.M., dressed, and ushered into Th t e cinmg room by our nannies. The baby of the family, Number Nine daughter gr was usually already there with my mother, who doted on her probably because d* was her las, child. (She was also the only one of her ch.ldren that she ever really?' or ZTu tIme With' Si"Ce by tlu' contree-™!.01". *7*. fish thou ° J ~year 52 T h e S ev e n t h D a u g h t e r ntC was born, the rest of us were all indePenden«.) P°rndge with We were served breakfast, typically assorted condiments such as saus age. eggs, picUed vegetables, and fermented bean curd. As soon drie finished, we were rushed outside where the rickshaw drivers were waiting to whisk us off to school. Unlike our breakfasts, family dinners were more leisurely, and somewhat predict­ able. Unless my parents were going out to the opera or dining with friends, most nights the family ate together. Promptly at six-thirty, my father would sit down at the dining room table so my mother could bring him his jiu cai ("little wine dishes ) to nibble while he sipped his glass ot French vermouth or Spanish sherry. All of us children had been warned by our mother not to disturb him during his end-of-the-day ritual. As a young child, 1 remember watching silently from the adjacent room as she lovingly placed the jiu cai dishes in front of my father. "Wow!" 1 thought. In a traditional Chinese household such as ours, the servants did everything for us, so to see my mother serving my father was pretty unusual. At the time, 1 thought my mother was worried that my father was too thin and that people (only those unfamiliar with her culinary talents, of course) would think she was a terrible cook. But now, looking back, 1 can only believe that her simple gesture of serving him his jiu cai actually spoke volumes about the fondness between them. Once my father had finished his jiu cai, the rest of the family was permitted to join him at the table for dinner. ft & One dinner stands out. Perhaps it was because on that particular evening the discussions were more animated than usual, but more probably because in a family with so many children—and as a seventh daughter—it was the first time I remember feeling noticed and special. It was in the fill of 1932 and I was eleven years old, just beginning junior high. It was an evening that began the same way as all others. As soon as we were all seated, platters and bowls magically began to appear, borne aloft by the two or three servants who seemed to live somewhere in that huge room. On this particular evening, there were only five or six dishes, typical when we were just family, with no guests joining us. The food was placed before us at intervals in the vast center ot the table. My older siblings were allowed to reach for food directly from the platters, while we younger ones were restricted to pointing to what we wanted, so that the servants could retrieve our portions. (Taking something from the platter ourselves was strictly forbidden. My mother would have banished us without dinner for such an infraction.) T he S e ve n t h Dau g h t e r Above all, no one, including our older brothers and sisters, was permitted to take anything until our parents had been served, and we were not allowed seconds until every last morsel on our plate had been consumed. "Each grain of rice represents a d rop of sweat," my mother admonished us, meaning that someone had worked very hard in the field to harvest the rice and nothing should go to waste. (I was quite surprised to learn after I came here that American mothers encouraged their children to eat with the caveat, "Finish your food, children are starving in China!") Another rule of my mother's was that the younger children were not supposed to speak at the table unless spoken to, while our older siblings, considered adults, were able to converse freely with our parents. I was obediently quiet, but all ears, as my oldest sister, Ning, "the beautiful one, chatted on and on with my mother about her upcoming wedding plans. She had been matched with a young man from Wuxi. Qiao, Number Three sister, and the one with the "voice of a bird," kept interrupting to complain that the costumes for the opera she was to perform in the following weekend hadn't been sewed correctly and made her look fat. Meanwhile, 1 could tell my mother was distracted by her continuing annoyance with her first daughter-in-law, Quan-Quen, who, against all house rules, was yet again late for dinner. I could see that her husband, my older brother Xiu Ji, was trying to ignore our mother's displeasure and was engrossed in a conversation with my father about politics, the ongoing skirmishes between the warlords, and the recent invasion of Manchuria by the Japanese. Zhen Ji, Number Three son, who was only two years my senior and on the cusp between the age when he could speak at the table and needed to be quiet, unexpectedly shocked us all into silence by stating that Chiang Kai-shek and his Nationalists were in trouble because they didn't have enough manpower to fight both the warlords and the Japanese. "Besides that, I've heard at school that the Communists have moved to Jiangxi Province and are starting to gain strength by recruiting the peasants," he proudly added, but almost shocking himself in the process with his boldness. Yes, Zhen Ji, I'm concerned that if Chiang has to fight the Communists again, which he must do to preserve the Republic, he will lose," my father replied. From that time on, my brother had crossed the line to adulthood, at least in terms of dinner-table protocol. I kept trying to keep up with all the conversations, but I was young, and apart from the family drama that captured my attention, I was actually more interested in 54 The Seventh Dau ghter the food. The first dish set on the table was a platter of cold items that I'm sure, though I d on't really recall, must have included chilled spiced beef and marinated radishes or pickled cabbage. The next dish that 1 d o remember was one of my favorites: chicken steamed and served witli a wine sauce, called Drunken Chicken, another of my mother's Shanghai specialties. We could always expect one or two vegetables, maybe sauteed mushrooms or spinach, and rice of course, as well as a whole fish, which that evening was fried carp with a light sauce of ginger and leeks. What I'll never forget, though, was the heady aroma of my mother's red-cooked pork wafting into the dining room from the kitchen. When the platters of pork were placed before us, it was all I could do to keep from serving myself. 1 behaved, of course, and when the nuggets of pork belly glistening with their glaze of soy, wine, and rock sugar melted on my tongue, I f elt that I h ad been amply rewarded for my patient restraint. "A wonderful meal," 1 thought, "but where is the soup?" Usually, it was put on the table steaming hot toward the end of the dinner—the Chinese always serve soup at the conclusion of the meal, rather than at the beginning. Just as I had that thought, the servants brought in steaming pots of broth and individual bowls of noodles, and it dawned on me that it was someone's birthday. The Chinese don't celebrate birthdays the way Westerners do, with parties, cakes, presents, and singing "Happy Birthday. I was always astonished that with so many children, my mother could keep track of our family milestones, yet at least twelve times a year, we acknowledged birthdays with bowls of noodles. It never failed to amaze ine to see such perfectly arranged noodles. Later, I learned that my mother had taught her chefs the trick of draping the cooked noodles over a pair of chopsticks so they were neatly aligned before they were carefully transferred to waiting soup howls. On that evening the noodles were brought into the dmrng room piled high with a mixture of stir-fried bamboo shoots, pork, and cabbage. At the table, the servants ladled some rich meat broth into each bowl. Um-ma my mother, deftly scooped up a tangle of noodles with her chopst.cks so tha, the longest strand cleared the bowl and said, "Long life, Lao Chi (Old Number Seven, which is what my mother affectionately called me), long life." Everyone a. the table repeated her gesture. "Long life, Number Seven, we wish you a very long life!" And, so it was that I would never forget my twelfth birthday, September 18, 1932. The Seventh Daughter 55 SOUPS Except for a few months of my life when I was forced to endure horrible hardship, I don't think I've ever gone a day without soup. In fact, I could probably say those days of deprivation were probably defined less by my lack of a soft bed, warm room, or even of a bath, and more by my craving for a n ourishing broth. Longtime friends say they would assume that they'd arrived at the wrong house if the aroma of chicken simmering with gin­ ger wasn't wafting from within. To this day, even though I eat out several times a week, a simple soup of a few vegetables or dumplings made with the broth of a flavorful yellow chicken gives me a deep-down comfort like nothing else can. The soups I've chosen to include in this chapter are all the kind I lik e to make and eat, which means that they are easy to prepare and have pure flavors with just a few ingredients. The recipes may seem simple, but they are elegant enough to serve Chinese style as a palate cleanser between courses or at the conclusion of a dinner, or Western style, as a first course. I can't stress enough, however, the importance of using the best ingredi­ ents you can find. If you rely on only a few ingredients, they must be of pristine quality. To that end, I've included my very easy recipe for chicken broth, one of the fundamentals of the Chinese kitchen, and the basis for all of my soups. The flavor of the broth is the first thing you taste in a soup, so it must be delicious. If you have made broth before, you'll be pleasantly surprised to learn that you don't need a lot of vegetables, nor must you skim it constantly. All you do need is a really flavorful chicken. Delicious Chicken Broth o/xf dmji ta.Kr I CAN'T COUNT THE NUMBER OF TIMES I've heard even good cooks say that making broth is too much of a bother, and they don't have any problem substituting canned broth in recipes. Not that there's anything bad about canned broth—there are some pretty good ones on the market. It's just that it is so easy (and often a lot cheaper) to make a delicious broth, salted and seasoned to your liking. And what else can you do in the kitchen that yields such high returns? With a delicious broth on hand, you have the basis for countless soups, sauces, stirfries, and slow-cooked dishes—like Chinese money in the bank. $ & I absolutely love the frugality of Cecilia's chicken broth, made with the least amount of effort and the fewest ingredients. It's also one of the best-tast­ ing broths ever, as good as the one made by my husband's Grandma Rose, the standard by which I measure all chicken broths. Cecilia has a few secrets, the first of which is to buy a good, fresh "yellow" chicken at the Asian market. At several Asian markets I could find chicken labeled "yellow chicken." An organic, the fat. Although Cecilia blanched the chicken first to get rid of impurities and then skimmed the broth during the first half hour she only skimmed it a few times more during the remaining hours of cooking. Consider this less a recipe and more a proce­ dure. It's not exact and can be doubled or tripled. —L.W. Makes about 8 cups 1 whole "yellow" or organic chicken, with head free-range stewing hen (or fryer), preferably still and feet attached (about 4 pounds) with head and feet (which lend a gelatinous quality 2-inch piece unpeeled fresh ginger, lightly to the finished broth), will certainly be tasty even though the result may not be quite the same. I also smashed 1 tablespoon kosher salt have to note here that chicken broth made with this generic "yellow chicken" is an amazing, almost Rinse the chicken well under cold running water. Put fluorescent, if not lemon, yellow, with an intense it in a small stockpot or large saucepan with enough chicken flavor to boot. It's worth a trip to the near­ cold water to cover it by at least 2 inches. Bring to a est Chinatown to find it. boil over high heat, let it cook 3 to 4 minutes, then Cecilia's second trick is to cook the chicken quickly transfer it to a colander to drain. very slowly for a few hours to extract as much fla­ vor as possible from the bones and meat "so all goodness goes into the liquid," as her mother used to say. Her final secret went against everything I knew about making broth: she doesn t remove all Rinse the chicken again with cold water to remove all traces of scum and clean out the stockpot. Return the chicken to the pot, add the ginger and salt, and enough cold water to cover it by several continued Soups 57 inches. Bring the liquid to a boil over high heat. the time, make Delicious Chicken Broth as previ­ Decrease the heat to medium-low to maintain a sim­ ously directed, and chill it in the refrigerator. Skim mer and cook for 4 to 5 hours, skimming off fat and off the fat and repeat the entire recipe for Delicious foam frequently during the first 30 minutes, and then Chicken Broth, but, for the long (4- to 5-hour) sim­ occasionally the rest of the time. Strain and refriger­ mer, use the chilled broth instead of water. If there's ate for up to 4 days. not enough liquid to cover the chicken then add some water (or even canned chicken broth). DOUBLE DELICIOUS CHICKEN BROTH-lf you really want to make your soup special and have Three Simple Soups Made from Delicious Chicken Broth I'VE GROUPED THESE THREE RECIPES TOGETHER to demonstrate how easy it is to make a delicious soup with a good, homemade chicken broth as a base and adding just a few ingredients. Don't let the simplicity of these recipes fool you into thinking they might be bland. On the contrary, they're extremely flavorful, but only if you use real Virginia ham, sweet corn cut off the cob, supremely fragrant sesame oil, and even freshly ground white pepper. TOFU AND SPINACH SOUP lo cai doajn ttui? Makes 6 (1-cup) servings 4 cups Delicious Chicken Broth (page 57) 8 ounces silken tofu, diced and gently squeezed to rid it of some of its water 2 cups (about 2 ounces) loosely packed fresh baby spinach leaves 1/2 teaspoon kosher salt Asian sesame oil, for drizzling The Seventh Daughter In a small saucepan, bring the chicken broth to a boil over high heat. Add the tofu, decrease the heat to medium, and simmer until the tofu is heated through, about 5 minutes. Add the spinach and salt to the broth, stir, and remove from the heat. To serve, ladle the soup into individual bowls, and drizzle each with a little sesame oil. WINTER MELON AND HAM SOUP koH tut doK^KO. tang Makes 6 (1-cup) servings squares that are approximately '/4 inch thick. Bring a saucepan of water to a boil, drop in the winter 2-ounce piece Virginia ham, about 1 inch thick 1/4 winter melon, about 1 pound 4 cups Delicious Chicken Broth (page 57) melon, and cook 5 minutes. Drain, rinse the melon in cold water, and set aside. In a saucepan, bring the chicken broth to a boil over Freshly ground white pepper high heat. Add the winter melon, decrease the heat 2 tablespoons chopped fresh cilantro, for garnish to medium-low, and simmer 10 minutes. Add the ham and simmer 5 minutes more. Slice the ham into 1/8-inch-thick strips and set aside. To serve, ladle the soup into individual bowls, sea­ TO PREPARE THE WINTER MELON, remove and son with white pepper (the ham should provide discard both seeds and rind. Cut the flesh into 1-inch enough salt), and sprinkle with cilantro. MINCED CHICKEN AND SWEET CORN SOUP JH Mtjt It Makes 6 (1-cup) servings 4 large egg whites 1 tablespoon cornstarch 6 ounces boneless, skinless chicken breast, coarsely chopped 4 cups Delicious Chicken Broth (page 57) 2 cups very fresh sweet white or yellow corn kernels (cut from 2 large or 4 small ears) 1/4 cup diced (1/4 inch) Virginia ham Whisk 2 of the egg whites with the cornstarch in a bowl until combined. Add the chicken and stir to coat well. Set aside. In a saucepan, bring the chicken broth to a boil over high heat. Add the corn and cook 5 minutes. Add the chicken and ham and cook 2 minutes longer, then add salt, to taste. Remove the saucepan from the heat. Whisk the remaining 2 egg whites and drizzle into the hot soup so that the whites form wispy trails. Kosher salt Freshly ground white pepper 2 tablespoons chopped fresh cilantro, for garnish 60 The Seventh Daughter Ladle the soup into individual bowls, grind over white pepper, and sprinkle with cilantro. Stuffed Cucumbers in Double Delicious Broth Ihclk^thcl %!dK roii tdK£ I'VE ALWAYS LOVED CUCUMBERS and think that they've gone underappreciated as a cooked vegetable. Here, they're stuffed with a savory mixture of ground pork and black mush­ rooms, steamed until they are crisp, but tender, and served in an intense, clear chicken broth. The soup is fresh and delicate and the cucumber cups can be made ahead and steamed just before serving, making a g reat dinner party dish. & 3We found that the microwave does a fine job with these. Because all microwaves cook at different rates, cut into one of filling mixtures to make sure it's done all the way through. —L.W. Makes about 24 cucumber cups 8 ounces ground pork 8 dried black mushrooms 1 tablespoon minced green onion, white part only 1 tablespoon finely chopped fresh cilantro, plus additional leaves, for garnish 1 teaspoon peeled, minced fresh ginger dice. Put in a medium bowl and add the pork, green onion, cilantro, ginger, wine, salt, soy sauce, sesame oil, and pepper until it's well combined. To taste the mixture for seasoning, saute a tablespoonful. Cut each cucumber crosswise into 12 rounds, each 3A inch thick. With a melon bailer or spoon, scoop out the seeds, leaving a little bit of flesh on the bot­ tom of the rounds (so the filling doesn't leak out), forming little cups. Fill the cucumber cups generously with the pork mixture, mounding it in the centers. Place the filled cups on 1 or 2 glass pie plates or baking dishes. You can prepare the cucumber cups to this point up to 8 1 teaspoon Shaoxing wine hours ahead; store, covered with plastic wrap, in the 1 tablespoon kosher salt refrigerator until needed. 1 tablespoon soy sauce Cook the cucumber cups, covered with plastic wrap, 1 teaspoon Asian sesame oil in a microwave on high for 4 minutes, or 5 to 6 min­ Freshly ground white pepper 2 English cucumbers, peeled 8 cups Double Delicious Chicken Broth (page 58) Asian sesame oil, for drizzling In a bowl, soak the dried mushrooms in hot water to cover for 15 minutes. Drain, then squeeze the excess moisture from the mushrooms, remove and utes if the mushrooms are cold from the refrigerator. Check the filling to make sure it's cooked all the way through, cooking them longer if necessary. Heat the chicken broth in a saucepan on the stove over high heat and decrease to a low simmer. To serve, divide cucumber cups among 8 soup bowls, then ladle over the broth. Garnish with a few cilantro leaves and a drizzle of sesame oil. discard the stems, and cut the mushrooms in'/4-inch Soups Spareribs with Daikon Soup Jd-ig* ton ha tang MY MOTHER USED TO MAKE THIS simple, affordable, and nutritious soup frequently dur­ ing Beijing's cold winters. It's one of my favorites and is a great example of thrifty Chinese home cooking—you'll never find it served in a restaurant. Often, when I know that I'm going to be out for the day, I'll make the broth for this soup in the morning or even the night before. When I get home, I a dd the daikon radish just before serving. Along with a bowl of rice (from the rice cooker), it makes for a quick, nourishing supper. & & Daikon radish, which can be quite sharp when Put the spareribs in a large saucepan or Dutch eaten raw, develops a sweet flavor when cooked. oven and add enough water to cover the meat by The size of the radish doesn't matter in terms of fla­ 2 inches. Bring the liquid to a boil over high heat, vor or freshness. Look for smooth, slightly shiny skin skimming off any fat and foam that rises to the top. and, if they're attached, fresh-looking green tops. Add the ginger, decrease the heat to medium-low If you do have the fresh tops, they can be sauteed to maintain a simmer, and cook for 1 hour. Add and served along with the soup. To roll-cut the daikon radish, begin by cutting the daikon radish, cover the pot, and continue to simmer, decreasing the heat if necessary to maintain off a diagonal piece from the end of the radish. Roll a low simmer, until the daikon is tender and translu­ the radish a quarter turn, then make another diago­ cent, 15 to 20 minutes more. Pull out and discard the nal cut about V/2 inch up from the last. Continue ginger. Add the salt and stir to combine well. rolling and cutting so you end up with large triangu­ lar pieces. —L.W. To serve, ladle the soup, including some of the spareribs, into individual bowls. Season each with Makes 8 servings 11/2 pounds meaty pork spareribs, trimmed of excess fat and cut in half lengthwise, then in half again lengthwise 2-inch piece unpeeled fresh ginger, smashed 3 cups (about 1 pound) daikon radish, peeled and roll-cut into 11/2-inch pieces 1 tablespoon kosher salt Freshly ground white pepper, for finishing Fresh cilantro leaves, for garnish Premium soy sauce, for dipping 62 The Seventh Daughter white pepper and sprinkle over a few cilantro leaves. Serve with small individual bowls or one communal bowl of soy sauce for dipping the spareribs. Long-Life Noodle Soup skijtK cka>i£ ikon tang man WHETHER THEY'RE THICK OR THIN, in soup, stir-fried, or simply sauced, long noodles- noodles that have not been cut—are served at almost every Chinese birthday, anniversary, or New Year's celebration because they symbolize long life. To support the theory that eating long noodles can bring you a long life, I offer myself (and many in my family) as proof that there must be something to our superstitions. This recipe is one of my favorite ways of serving the noodles, the way my mother did, in a soup bowl and topped with a mixture of stir-fried vegetables and meat, with broth ladled over all. It is endlessly, and deliciously, variable. & & & I'd never eaten fresh bamboo shoots until I had them at Betelnut in San Francisco. What a revela­ tion fresh ones are. Not only are they crunchy, they Makes 6 to 8 servings 8 ounces pork loin 11/2 teaspoons cornstarch used one large bamboo shoot, about one pound 11/2 teaspoons Shaoxing wine before it was trimmed. Look for bamboo shoots that 3 tablespoons canola, safflower, or peanut oil are incredibly sweet and delicate. For this recipe we are heavy and free of soft spots, mold, or cracks. If 2 cups (about 8 ounces) fresh winter bamboo they smell at all sour, pass them by. shoots, trimmed and cut into 1/4 by I found its prep was much like the way I pare an artichoke. The key is using a very sharp knife and having a kitchen towel to rest the shoot on so it doesn't slip. Cut off about 1 inch from the tip and then cut into the shoot, about 'X? inch lengthwise. From there, start cutting off the outside leaves, working your way around until you reach the pale inner core of the shoot. Cut off about '/2 inch from the bottom of the shoot and set this trim aside to add to the broth for flavoring. The shoot 1/4 by 2-inch matchsticks 2 cups thinly shredded napa cabbage 2 tablespoons premium soy sauce 1/2 teaspoon kosher salt 2 tablespoons Shaoxing wine 1/4 teaspoon sugar 8 cups Delicious Chicken Broth (page 57) 1 pound fresh Vs-inch-wide Chinese noodles should now be a rough, cone-shaped cylinder. Cut Kosher salt that lengthwise into Va-inch slices, then stack and Freshly ground white pepper cut the slices into matchsticks. You can store sliced bamboo shoots in the refrigerator, wrapped in a paper towel in a plastic bag, for up to 1 day. —L.W. continued Soups So the pork is easier to slice, freeze it for 30 minutes or so to firm it up. Slice the frozen meat diagonally against the grain into 1/4 by 1/4 by 2-inch strips. In a small bowl, stir the cornstarch with the wine, then add the pork and toss so the strips are well coated. T O C O O K T HE VE G E TA B L E S AN D T H E PO R K , heat a nonstick wok or skillet over high heat until a bead of water dances on the surface and then evaporates. Add half of the oil and swirl to coat the pan. Add the bamboo shoots and cook, stirring continuously, for 2 minutes, or until the bamboo shoots begin to color on the edges. Add the cabbage and cook 15 sec­ onds, then add 1 tablespoon of the soy sauce and the salt. Cook 1 minute longer, or until the cabbage is wilted; transfer the mixture to a plate. Add the remaining oil to the pan. Add the pork, stir­ ring constantly, and cook until the pork has lost its raw color, about 30 seconds. Stir in the wine and remaining soy sauce, and a couple of pinches of sugar. Taste for seasoning and set aside. Bring the broth to a simmer over high heat in a large saucepan and add the trimmed ends of the bamboo shoots. Decrease the heat to a simmer while you cook the noodles. Bring another large stockpot of water to a b oil over high heat. Cook the noodles until tender, about 4 minutes; drain. To serve, place equal piles of noodles in individual bowls. Season the broth with salt and pepper to taste, then ladle some broth over each bowl of noodles (leaving behind the bamboo shoot trim­ mings) and top with some of the stir-fried mixture. 64 The Seventh Daughter Shark's Fin Soup ji siyu cki taK£ THE FIRST THING ALICE WATERS SAID TO ME when I told her I was writing this cookbook was "Cecilia, you're going to include your recipe for shark's fin soup, aren't you? I adore it and no one makes it like you do." Usually reserved for banquets and special occasions, sharks fin is extremely expensive and considered a delicacy in China. It's prized not only for its texture, but also for its subtle, briny flavor. I love it too. but it's quite a production so I rarely make it except once in while for New Year's. But how can I disappoint my old friend? Alice, this recipe is for you. # Use whole shark's fin for the most authentic tasting and aesthetically pleasing results, otherwise you II end up with odd-sized pieces. Don't be tempted to use canned or pre-soaked and softened shark s fin. It will not yield the same flavor and texture. To prepare the shark's fin: Rinse 4 ounces of dried shark's fin under cold running water and, using a small bristle brush, carefully clean off any dirt or grime. The strands of the fin are very delicate, so this process requires a gentle hand. In a medium bowl, soak the fin in a generous amount of cold water for 24 hours. Change the water and soak for another 24 hours. Drain the water and discard. Keeping the fin in one piece, carefully peel off the skin and discard it. Place the peeled shark's fin on a rimmed plate or bowl that will fit inside a steamer tier. Fill the steamer bottom with a generous amount of water, bring it to a boil, and then place the bowl with the fin above it. Cover and steam for 3 hours. Carefully # Serves 6 to 8 as part of a Chinese meal and 4 to 6 as a Western-style entree 3 cups Double Delicious Chicken Broth (page 58) 1 (2-ounce) piece Virginia ham (about 3 inches by 1 inch) 4 ounces shark's fin, soaked and steamed For garnish 2 tablespoons finely shredded Virginia ham 1 cup fresh bean sprouts, ends trimmed, quickly blanched in boiling water and rinsed well under cold water, optional Chinkiang black vinegar or balsamic vinegar (optional) In a large saucepan, bring the chicken broth and Vir­ ginia ham to a boil over medium heat. Reduce the heat and simmer for 30 minutes. Add the shark's fin and cook on low for 20 minutes. lift the plate out of the steamer tier and set aside To serve, ladle the warm broth into bowls and divide until ready to use. the shark's fin evenly among them. Garnish each Be sure to use Double Delicous Chicken Broth (page 57) and the best quality ham you can find to bowl with a pinch of ham, a few bean sprouts, and a dash of vinegar, if you like. make this special soup. —L.W. Soups 65 Easy Sizzling Rice Soup gHO U ta.H£ EVEN I STILL GET A KICK OUT of hearing the sizzle made by the hot rice cakes when they're plopped into the steaming liquid. Rice cakes, or guo bah, are made from rice that has cooked for a long time until it has become dried and hard, then fried so that it puffs up. After I sold the restaurant, I never made this soup at home because it was too much trouble to make the rice cakes and set up a fryer to cook them just before serving. One day, I discovered prepared rice cakes and decided to try them. Wow! So easy, and now I m ake this soup all the time, to the delight of my dinner guests. & # & The key to ensure that the rice sizzles when it s dropped into the soup is to have both the rice cakes In a bowl, soak the dried mushrooms in hot water for 15 minutes. Drain, thinly slice, and set aside. and the broth very hot when they're brought to the Whisk the egg white a little to break it apart and table. Rice cakes are a y t pically frugal Chinese method then combine it with the cornstarch. Add the chicken for using rice that has been overcooked and hardened breast and stir so it's well-coated. Set aside. on the bottom of the pot. Short of having overcooked rice on hand, it's not difficult to make your own if you can't find commercial rice cakes. —L.W. Makes 6 (1-cup) servings About 20 minutes before you want to serve the soup, preheat the oven to 350°F. Put the rice cakes on a baking sheet and bake 10 minutes. In a large sauce­ pan, bring the chicken broth to a boil over high heat. Decrease the heat to medium-low to maintain a sim­ 5 or 6 dried black mushrooms mer and add the mushrooms. Cook about 2 minutes, 1 large egg white decrease the heat to low so the broth is barely at 2 teaspoons cornstarch 3 ounces boneless, skinless chicken breast, cut into 1/2-inch dice a simmer, then add the chicken (if the broth is sim­ mering too hard the coating will slip off the chicken). Cook 2 minutes more; add the sugar snap peas, shrimp, and water chestnuts. Cook 2 minutes and 6 (2-inch) square commercial rice cakes 6 cups Delicious Chicken Broth (page 57) or Double Delicious Chicken Broth (page 58) 1/2 then remove from the heat. Season to taste. Transfer the hot soup to a heated tureen or large serving bowl and put the rice cakes on a heated platter. cup sugar snap or snow peas, stringed and cut diagonally into 1/2-inch pieces To serve, immediately drop the rice cakes into the soup and listen to the sizzle. Ladle the soup into 3 ounces medium shrimp, shelled, deveined, and tails removed, cut into V2-inch pieces 2/3 bowls, making sure to include rice in each portion. cup water chestnuts, drained and finely diced Kosher salt Freshly ground white pepper Soups
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Journal Entry
The readings gave a vivid picture of life experienced by Chinese people in the years
before the second world war, and after. They were focused on experiences within China, and
abroad in the U.S, as well as Taiwan. I found the articles to be remarkably informative, and
sentimental. I learned plenty of things about life in China in the mid-20th century. It...


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