Weining Wang
There is a set of dishes by my cutting board,
Inspire memories of my childhood,
My great grandfather uses it every night,
Cooking traditional food in a good mood. .
I found an old pan, worn and brown,
Repeating my grandfather’s process,
Cooking for two old hearts and bright eyes,
Home-cooking cuisine is handed down.
Chicken breasts, cut into small pieces,
Minced beef, chopped onions, avocado and chili sauce
Slice the celery and carrot into long slices
Combine all of them with the love sauce.
Three years later, nothing to remember but the food,
Thirty years later, nowhere to taste but the home.
In the ancestral kitchen where I worked,
Built by the great-grandfather I never met,
I found nothing when I visited,
And I’m not sure what happened centuries ago.
I have learned to cook from my grandfather,
I have followed the culinary steps of my forebears,
Boiled, burnt, baked, steamed and stir-fried
All stories was recorded on the kitchen’s platfond.
I can imagine my great grandfather cooking for Chinese kings,
Baking spring pancakes as thin as a skin,
Rubbing meatballs as round as a ball,
I know these stories from my mother’s calling.
The kitchen is old, darkness and run-down.
But I will cook in this kitchen from birth to death.