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Roselle Lim Biography

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“Temperance took Baba's wok away. I had cradled it so many times when I was lonely or needed my father. It allowed me to be fooled into thinking I wasn't alone; otherwise, I was like any other impoverished orphan in Lupong. It was my father's legacy. No, I was his legacy. Baba would have wanted my team to advance to the feast. He always insisted that I needed nothing but my memories of him to keep his spirit alive.”

“As I walked, I became aware of the strong odor of peonies and jasmine. I inhaled deeply to draw in the lovely bouquet. The scent was from the fresh flowers of a lush garden. The path opened into a courtyard, a tangle of peonies and jasmine framing the entrance, blooming in spectacular fashion. Silky petals brushed against my skin. The tension building in my neck and shoulders melted away as I entered a fairyland. The rustle of the night breeze joined the familiar voice of Teresa Teng echoing from invisible speakers. Beneath my feet, a path of moss-covered stones led to a circular platform surrounded by a large, shallow pond. The night garden was bursting with a palette of muted greens, starlit ivories, and sparkling golds: the verdant lichen and waxy lily pads in the pond, the snowy white peonies and jasmine flowers, and the metallic tones of the fireflies suspended in the air, the square-holed coins lining the floor of the pond, and the special golden three-legged creatures resting on the floating fronds. I knew these creatures from my childhood. The feng shui symbol of prosperity, Jin Chan was transformed into a golden toad for stealing the peaches of immortality. Jin Chan's three legs represented heave, earth, and humanity. Statues of him graced every Chinese home I had ever been in, for fortune was a visitor always in demand. Ma-ma had placed one near the stairs leading to the front door. The pond before me held eight fabled toads, each biting on a coin. If not for the subtle rise and fall of their vocal sacs, I would have thought them statues.”

“When I was a little girl, I would gorge on her fried tofu with chilies. I was much slimmer back then, you know." "Was the tofu your favorite dish of hers?" I asked. "Oh no, there's too many to count." Celia's tone softened as if she were waxing nostalgic about a lost, grand romance, rather than a recipe. "Everything she cooked was excellent. I still remember every dish that she made: beef noodle soup, braised short ribs, drunken chicken wings, deep-fried shrimp rolls... Your laolao cooked from her heart, and that's why her food was the best in Chinatown.”

“Once the soup stock was underway and infused with the desert silkie chicken, I dipped my spoon into the bubbling broth to test it. Warmth filled my stomach as I sipped. The rich, gamey flavor of the chicken rose above the simmering spices. A pleasant numbness tickled my tongue, and a puff of smoke emerged from my nostrils. The spiciness had a sour, savory dynamic that, combined with the ingredients I'd chosen, created a wonderfully complex profile.”

“Folks could claim they served their dishes to dignitaries, kings, and empresses, but few had the impact of cooking for immortals. And it wasn't only the honor that drew people to the banquet, it was its life-changing prize. The winners of the Celestial Banquet would each receive a priceless gift: a peach of immortality. Three vertical banners in shades of jeweled green bearing the names of the major gods unfurled next--- Luck, Temperance, and Indulgence. Everyone on the Continent worshipped the gods. They presided over our world but only came down every ten years for the competition-- a legendary celebration of the vanquishing of Death. They were the arbiters of taste. Not only did they shape the culinary landscape, but their choice of whom to award the peaches had a far-reaching impact--- the valuable prize provided the winning team the bargaining power to defend. For me, it would mean making my dreams a reality and honoring my father's dying wish.”

“I turned to my kitchen to put the final touch on my dish--- a splash of black aged vinegar to the broth. The acidity provided a better balance in the overall flavor. Black pieces of the desert silkie floated like ebony islands against the rich cinnabar shade of the hot pot broth. Amidst the bubbling broth, the vegetables--- deep green leaves with orange, dark pink, and light green blossoms--- created a kaleidoscope of tropical colors. It told a visual story of Lupong surrounded by the turbulent Singing Sea--- how the humble Peninsula was a vibrant place, despite the Continent's view that it was a desolate backwater. It was the defiant testament that we existed. Our sovereignty was important, and the Empress had no right to invade our land and our home. This dish was a reminder that winning the peaches of immortality would mean freedom for the Peninsula. I wanted the Empress to eat my defiance.”

“A steaming bowl of conpoy and mustard-green congee revived my senses. Pungent cilantro leaves and golden-fried minced garlic accented the surface of the rice porridge. I dipped my wide ceramic spoon into it and tested the consistency. The rice grains had popped enough to form a silky, creamy texture. The hint of white pepper created a perfectly balanced song on my tongue.”

“The plate features seared sea serpent with poached meadow flower breams." The acidic bath method had worked. The flesh of the sea serpent had transformed yet again and changed to a very iron-rich deep red. The taste was reminiscent of fatty tuna, with a stronger metallic edge. I'd set the filets in shallow clay bowls and bathed them in a marinade made of coriander, minced ginger, chilies, kalamansi, and my signature soy sauce. I'd toasted black sesame seeds and combined them with crushed pink peppercorns as a rub--- the crust to create a contrast for the tender, almost jellied meat underneath. On the side, I added the poached filets of meadow flower breams in a rich golden sauce with singing carp caviar.”

“After charring the thousand dragon's tea to ash, I steeped it with a silkie chicken, dried cloud's ear mushrooms, scallions, and cured, salted fish. Making a few adjustments, I added in some pungent star anise, purple scallions, scorpion chilis, and black garlic. As if I were a witch, I concocted the most powerful brew--- a potent broth to steam the rice, a punch to the tongue and teeth.”

“The foil packet sighed as I pulled it open, hissing as it yielded its bounty. Clouds of steam puffed upward, releasing the tantalizing aroma into the air. The fish's reddish skin had a beautiful overlapping pattern that looked as if it had been painted by some wayward mermaid. My sharp scissors snipped the stitches in its belly, spilling the filling onto the plate. I scooped us both two helpings of the garlic fried rice and portioned the desirable parts of the fish, the head and the belly, for Celia, while I took the tail. The piece of fish on my fork bore the sign of perfect execution: moist, milky translucence, and a silky texture that sprang to the touch. Infused with the fragrant stuffing, the tender fish melted in my mouth, dissolving in a mélange of delicious flavors- the trio of boldness from the coriander, garlic, and red onion tempered by the sweet tanginess of the tomatoes. Success.”

“I began the process of transforming the slab of pork belly in the fridge into my version of a Shanghai-style dish. I chopped the lean meat into bite-size pieces, and then blanched and browned them in demerara sugar and sesame oil. The sizzle and occasional pop accompanied the incomparable, savory aroma of rendering fat. As the meat stewed in its juices, I created a sauce comprising pink peppercorns, star anise, cloves, sweet soy sauce, and Chinese rice wine in the hot wok. I braised the pork belly, checking in at intervals to ensure the tenderness of the meat.”

“Baskets of dim sum rested on the glass lazy Susan: spicy phoenix claws, plump purses of har gow, shumai topped with green pea crowns, and airy wu gok. I had learned from previous meetings that the old man was adamant about following tradition, which meant I had to arrive with an empty stomach. Refusing offered food was an insult Old Wu didn't take lightly. I helped myself to a sample of each dish. Made of minced pork with a paper-thin wrapper, the steamed shumai was tender, and the har gow was juicy with the shrimp with bamboo shoots highlighted by a peekaboo skin. Then I bit into the wu gok, a fried taro puff with a wispy, crunchy shell and a dripping shrimp and pork filling. The powdery creaminess of the dish made this my favorite of the bunch.”

“A league of dragons emerged from the steam, all in a white, cloudy vapor. They flew upward to the sky. The fragrance of the tea reminded me of the high altitudes of the mountain, the blooming peonies from the rooftop garden, and the brininess of the Singing Sea. The intoxicating taste introduced an umami flavor I'd never experienced in any drink. The punch from its intensity matched my first taste of flame song whiskey and its richness, that of the most pungent king oyster mushrooms.”

“Pubu embodied femininity--- a perfect powdered face, poppy-red lips, painted brows, and a pleasing form doused in patchouli and amber. Jingling jade and gold bracelets encircled slender white wrists. A pink lotus flower opened and reopened at the crown of her ink-black upswept hair. Mist and waterfall spray covered her low-cut pale blue silk gown while enchanting golden, white, and red goldfish swam along the fabric, bobbing in constant motion.”

“Pubu is the waterfall minor goddess and her familiar is the fantail goldfish. She is the only minor goddess, though it is rumored that two others have faded into memory. She prides herself in her unparalleled beauty and sharp mind. Though she has many mortal male admirers, she prefers immortal company. Her latest failed dalliance with Senlin left her in a precarious position for the upcoming banquet. -- CONCERNING MINOR GODS, EIGHTH SCROLL, GREAT LIBRARY OF XIANLING”

“The gray shells of the shrimp gleamed like smooth pebbles in a stream. Ten minutes before the guests arrived, I would submerge them into a hot bath of clear soda accented with slices of ginger. I watched and waited, checking for when the shells turned coral. The soda enhanced the natural sweetness of the shrimp. This dish would be the last to be cooked because of its short cooking time. I also prepared a batch of scented jasmine rice. Every Chinese meal was accompanied by the requisite rice or noodle staple.”

“I had my feast out on the kitchen table. Draped over beds of jasmine rice, thin pork chops seasoned with lemongrass showcased charred stripes from the grill. Cold summer rolls with translucent rice paper glimmered with riotous colors from the mint leaves, vermicelli, and shrimp filling. Emerald coriander leaves peeked out amid slices of barbecued pork, in golden, crusty baguette sandwiches called banh mi. I placed a few pieces of the pork onto a plate for the cat. I bit into the cold rolls first. The thin wrapper yielded to my teeth, giving way to the crunchy pickled vegetables and plump shrimp underneath. The mint leaf inside complemented the sweet sauce with crushed peanuts. The two small rolls vanished into my belly. I attacked the banh mi next. The crisp crust highlighted the varying textures of its filling: crisp from the pickled radish and carrots, textures sang on my tongue.”

“The server soon brought large platters of cheung fun and zhaliang along with various condiments for dipping. Cheung fun was a delightfully surprising dish: nestled within the flat, translucent rice rolls were plump prawns. Zhaliang were crispy, long fritters wrapped in rice noodle. This was a favorite because of the combinations of contrasting textures: tender steamed rice noodles and crunchy golden fritters. The taste of these two dishes was determined by its accompanying dressing: spicy if paired with hot mustard, salty with soy sauce, and sweet with the peanut sauce.”

“Yin-yang fried rice was a feast for the eyes and the senses. Swirls of cream contrasted with an orange tomato sauce to form the iconic pattern. Underneath the sauces lay a bed of yang chow fried rice containing a bounty of minced jewels: barbecued pork, Chinese sausage, peas, carrots, spring onions, and wisps of egg. Slices of white onions and pork emerged from the tomato sauce while shrimp and sweet green peas decorated the cream.”

“The release of steam created a sigh in the air, acting as the prayer before a meal, the ceremonial ribbon cutting before the devouring. Eating crab was a leisurely pursuit. The sweet treasure of crabmeat could only be unlocked by a deft grip or the aid of a steel seafood cracker. I offered the coveted heavy female crab to my guest. He smiled and brandished his cracker, shattering the shell in strategic spots. He attacked with purpose: disassembling, dissecting to get to the jeweled fat and eggs inside. While Older Shen ate, I proceeded with my own crab, prying the carapace open by pulling on its apron. The juices dripped down my fingers as I attacked the meat in the body first. My favorite parts were the legs because of how little effort they took compared to the claw and the minute chambers of the body. I sucked the meat from the hollow legs, careful to avoid the plasticky cartilage. The sweetness of the crab complemented the spicy, tangy dipping sauce I'd provided. Flecks of green onion and yellow disks of chili pepper seeds floated in the red wine vinegar.”

“First, I placed the clean snapper on a bed of aluminum foil sprinkled with sea salt and olive oil. I then stuffed the tomatoes, garlic, onions, and coriander into the belly of the fish before sewing it shut. The first time I'd tasted this, the snapper was skewered and turned over open flames. To accompany it, I'd drunk the sweet juice from young coconuts cut with machetes, taken off the very trees above us. Now that I was back to apartment living, I had to modify the recipe and grill the fish in a closed packet. The texture of the skin wouldn't be as crisp, but the flesh would be even more tender. If I had thought Celia preferred the crisp texture, I would have fried it with the stuffing mixture served on the side. The fish was ready to be baked. I prepared sinanag, Filipino garlic fried rice, to accompany the fish: jasmine rice, smashed garlic cloves, sea salt, and a sprinkle of vegetable oil.”

“I poured the silvery whites over my broth and used my chopsticks to make a mass of shimmering ribbons until the sauce transformed into a galaxy of miniature birds. I split the pot into three tureens--- one for Indulgence, his dragon, and one for the Empress. The garnishing sauce was done. As for the omurice, it'd be far more elaborate. I piled the fried rice into two separate mountains, ready for their canopy of gold. The trick was to cook the omelet evenly and then twirl it onto the rice, making a beautiful swirled blanket on top. I made a spicy gravy to dribble over it to give it a shine, and the final garnish was minced spring onions. The emerald green contrasted against the golden omelet.”

“I combined garlic, five-spice, black peppercorns, Thai chilies, and paprika in a large bowl for the seasoning. I tumbled two pounds of chicken wings out of their brown paper wrappings and into the waiting bowl, where I kneaded the pungent mixture into them, squeezing the spices into the meat like an experienced massage therapist. Another bowl full of Shaoxing rice wine awaited the wings as the next step after their rigorous massage. They soaked and relaxed, basking in the pool of wine to become drunken like their name.”

“The birds had multiplied. She'd installed rows upon rows of floating melamine shelves above shoulder height to accommodate the expression of her once humble collection. Though she'd had bird figurines all over the apartment, the bulk of her prized collection was confined to her bedroom because it had given her joy to wake up to them every morning. Before I'd left, I had a tradition of gifting her with bird figurines. It began with a storm petrel, a Wakamba carving of ebony wood from Kenya I had picked up at the museum gift shop from a sixth-grade school field trip. She'd adored the unexpected birthday present, and I had hunted for them since. Clusters of ceramic birds were perched on every shelf. Her obsession had brought her happiness, so I'd fed it. The tiki bird from French Polynesia nested beside a delft bluebird from the Netherlands. One of my favorites was a glass rainbow macaw from an Argentinian artist that mimicked the vibrant barrios of Buenos Aires. Since the sixth grade, I'd given her one every year until I'd left: eight birds in total. As I lifted each member of her extensive bird collection, I imagined Ma-ma was with me, telling a story about each one. There were no signs of dust anywhere; cleanliness had been her religion. I counted eighty-eight birds in total. Ma-ma had been busy collecting while I was gone. I couldn't deny that every time I saw a beautiful feathered creature in figurine form, I thought of my mother. If only I'd sent her one, even a single bird, from my travels, it could have been the precursor to establishing communication once more. Ma-ma had spoken to her birds often, especially when she cleaned them every Saturday morning. I had imagined she was some fairy-tale princess in the Black Forest holding court over an avian kingdom. I was tempted to speak to them now, but I didn't want to be the one to convey the loss of their queen. Suddenly, however, Ma-ma's collection stirred. It began as a single chirp, a mournful cry swelling into a chorus. The figurines burst into song, tiny beaks opening, chests puffed, to release a somber tribute to their departed beloved. The tune was unfamiliar, yet its melancholy was palpable, rising, surging until the final trill when every bird bowed their heads toward the empty bed, frozen as if they hadn't sung seconds before. I thanked them for the happiness they'd bestowed on Ma-ma.”