Homesick: Taiwan
by Yu-Ying Chuang

Recipe Background 

On a typical summer afternoon—humid air, motionless sun, distant hills bent on the horizon like swimming pool reflections—my dad brought home yet another mound of supermarket raid. Our creaking front door sang a choir because the whole family—the five of us—was unloading the trunk, moving in and out of the house like a trail of ants. I helped by carrying a carton of canned Ba Bao Jhou (jeweled congee) into the pantry. I think I was only nine. The labour and sweat built up my appetite. My dad chucked a few cans of Ba Bao Jhou into the fridge. ‘Wait till after dinner’, he suggested.

The moon rose, lifting a tier of dense heat off scorching asphalt. The wind coming out of fans was no longer warm. I sat myself down with a heart-throbbingly chilled can of Ba Bao Jhou after dinner. Even the ring-pull seal’s pop was crisp. I first licked the back of the seal clean of any residue. The syrup was cozily sweet without numbing the root of my tongue. In the can, jewels of grain glittered in the pillowy, refreshing syrup like a pebbly road after a rain. I eagerly plucked the plastic foldable scoop that was attached to the lid. Each mouthful burst chilling sweetness as I chewed, bouncing beads of sweat off my skin and back in the air. The scoop was so small that every scoopful seemed to suit people with beaks. I cleaned the can in under a minute. 

Ba Bao Jhou persists to be my go-to summer relief. Every uneasy summer afternoon, I find myself shoveling through the jewel-studded pool, searching for that plump dried longan—each can comes with only two, precisely two! My parents always kept something in the fridge or the pantry for us kids to nibble on. I especially enjoyed my dad’s mung bean soup and my mom’s pineapple soup. My dad would lightly roast the mung beans before cooking them. The roasting adds dimension to the soup’s fragrance and flavour. He is good at balancing the smokiness so that the soup doesn’t end up with an ashy taste. I hated pineapples for the itchy tongue sensation. My mom salvaged prickly pineapples by simply boiling them with rock sugar. It’s a less guilty version of eating canned pineapple for a meal. 

I miss loads of other summer sweets from home: hand-washed aiyu, tofu pudding, grass jelly...Most of them are popular roadside-stall delicacies. But I tend to crave my parents’ attention with their homemade versions.

Recipe Story 

I find the bucket of multi-grain rice my mom had premixed before she flew back. When she was diagnosed with breast cancer, her doctor suggested she adopt a high-fibre, low in fat and protein diet. Her regime of ‘eating healthy’ extended to care for our health too. Multi-grain rice is one of many healthy legacies that persists on our dinner plates since. Other debuts included seaweed, chickpea, burdock...the selection is now referred to as ‘pigeon foods’ whenever us siblings remember that appalling phase in childhood.  

Even today, I still find it difficult to have multi-grain rice on a daily basis. I am not in the mood for healthy eating, although it has been over a year since I last cooked the rice. Recreating a childhood memory—Ba Bao Jhou—is my strategic take on my mom’s healthy feeding. I drown a portion of rice in a pot. I observe the pool as I swirl the grains in eights. 

My home, Chiayi, is usually referred to as the ‘retirement town’ of Taiwan. It is a slow-paced, laid-back city with an aging population. It doesn’t stand out, nor is it significant in any way. Its people, mostly elders, are genuinely caring in a way different from commercial hospitality. The auntie who lives next door often knocks on our door to pass on veggies she picked from her farm. The fish mongers across the street exchange their fish for my dad’s homegrown cabbages. My dad teaches the neighbourhood how to grow tomatoes in their roadside flowerbeds. People show care through food, a meal or fresh produce. It’s a common belief, which I suppose stems from the agricultural roots of Taiwanese culture, that no one can fight the day with an empty tummy. That’s why we commonly greet each other in Taiwanese Hokkien: tsiah-pa-bue. It literally means ‘Have you eaten yet?’ 

My dad is the family chef. Cooking is his way of caring for us; plus, he’s good at it. Every day, when the sun begins to set, he puts on his apron and gets the fire going. In no time, he always puts on a feast—sesame chicken, braised pork belly, vegetable stir-fry and daikon soup. Although Taiwan is known for good food on the streets, my dad has restricted us from eating outside since me and my brothers were little. By keeping an eye on our diet, he made sure we were always prepared for tomorrow. His cooking is his blessing. I went to university in another city. When I used to return home for holidays, he asked about my cravings days ahead. I would always, definitely order his signature taro mee hoon. Sometimes his cabbage rice as well. The list was endless.   

I leave the mixture to boil. While waiting, I find a dusty clear pocket file. It is my mom’s collection of Asian recipes she gathered from Coles’ and Woolworths’ magazines. In 2008, she brought us three kids to study in Australia. During that period, she tried to make Perth feel like home. She wanted that; my brothers and I, who were still juniors in high school, needed that. She strived to perform my dad’s blessing though she has never been talented, almost ungifted in cooking. After pots burnt and food unswallowed, she managed to master her three signatures: basa fillet in soy, tomato-base beef noodle soup, and a home recipe of Hae Mee given by a local Malaysian mom. She is smug with her Hae Mee now; she never fails. It has since become her most frequently asked question: ‘Do you want Hae Mee today, son?’ 

Sickness didn’t conquer her; aging marked its victory though. My mom continued commuting between Perth and Taiwan until the border closed. She was becoming smaller and smaller every time we picked her up at the airport. I bent over so she could wrap her arms around me when we hugged at the departure gate last year. She seemed more like the child. Time arched her back closer and closer to the stovetop. It reminded me to pick up cooking in order to show her that I could care for myself. I pick up a wok and first felt the burden she put on herself.  

The grains start to dance in the water. The whirl sucks my soul in. I put on the radio I have been listening to since I was in uni. Marc, one of the hosts, is reading a letter from another long-time listener, who wonders if there is a measurement for love. ‘It’s probably the duration’, Marc replied. 

After the borders closed, my family began actively sharing photos of our meals to proof that ‘I have eaten’. One day, my mom sent me a picture showing a table full of dishes quite resembling what my dad is capable of. She told me how she had madly improved her cooking by watching YouTube during the pandemic. She apologised for feeding us what she used to cook. ‘Now that I have these people to learn from, you guys don’t need to worry anymore.’ None of the dishes she ever made was strictly Taiwanese or came close to my dad’s. My dad can easily whip up a meal of taro mee hoon. His care is packed in the heartwarming broth and flavours, straightforward. On the other hand, my mom endeavours to fulfill how she sees herself in our lives as our mother with Hae mee. I don’t see, in the near future, maybe even after borders reopen, a day she stops improving her cooking. 

Chiayi and Perth feel similar. In either town, I can always expect someone waiting for me at home. In high school, my grandpa would see me off to school every morning. As I approached home after school, I would see my dad waiting at the front door, figuring when to start cooking. When I used to transfer at Perth station, my mom would meet up with me at Forrest Chase so we could go home together. When cabbages were on sale, she would call me to Northbridge because she wanted me to help carry. Most often, I would come to either home to a rumbling kitchen, a breathing rice cooker and a howling kitchen fan. From the kitchen light, their silhouettes would emerge, asking me ‘Tsiah-pa-bue?’ And I knew I was finally at home for the day, shutting out the world behind me. 

My mom nags, every month if not every week, about a family reunion in Perth. Perth is not our physical home; yet, it has become a significant setting for my family. In the time we spent here, my mom never stopped inventing her role in our lives. I find ‘home’ here and there in Perth: at oriental groceries in Northbridge, on the Armadale-bound platform, on a bench outside the ramen bar where I used to work...in every corner where she waited for us to gather around the dinner table she prepared. Her creation of ‘home’ manifests in my memory of her wandering in supermarket aisles, flipping a wok with both of her hands, and smiling when we cleaned the plates. 

Cooking runs in my family as a form of free expression. The message is mutual. It’s only me living with one of my brothers in Perth now. We have very different schedules. He works 9 to 5 and joins late-night basketball games; my body functions follow a standard student’s timetable. I usually come home to a quiet kitchen. He usually comes home late to a sleeping apartment. We eat by ourselves. Before I go to sleep, I pack his lunch box and leave it on the counter with his dinner. 

I stir the pot for another eight minutes. When the grains resurface, I leave the mixture to simmer before removing the pot from the heat. The mixture bubbles for another while, then the grains sink again. It gleams like a pebbled, red bean–hued seabed. I cover it up with its lid, leaving a gap for it to breathe. For the rest of the afternoon, our place smells of freshly cooked multi-grain rice. I love it. It has been two years since my mom last cooked for us. 

Additional texts 

My mom’s ideal getaway is in a cabin at the foot of the Alps. She would wake up to birds chirping, firewood crackling and, from behind distant mountain peaks, a snowy breeze howling instead of the sound of commercial jets. Basically, she fancies living in a postcard. She has long dreamed of living in a quieter place where life’s dramas are less intense, so she can focus on caring for her poor health. 

Q&A 

Q. What does home provide you with? 

A. In Taiwan, funerals are often held at home. The body is transported home and kept in a cooler before cremation. During the in-home period, the household will keep the house bright by leaving as many lights on as possible. It’s a tradition, an old way of guiding the wandering spirit back home from where it left the body. The view of a bright place gives me this unnamed feeling of safety, a sign of refuge. Especially at night, when I head home from work or study, the house is like a bonfire in a dark concrete jungle. The closer I get, the more released from the city buzz I feel.  
 
Although we are scattered around the globe, thanks to technology, my family can check on me, at any time, to see whether I am at home. The comfort and security of home has become the replies after a ‘read’ sign, or two blue ticks on Whatsapp. To me, home is someone waiting for you or the lights are on for you.  

Yu-Ying Chuang has lived in Perth twice: the first was from 2007 to 2010, and the other is ongoing since 2018. He often looks back for explanation. In his creative non-fiction pieces, he reflects on the difference between his minds, as well as the faces of Perth, ten years prior and later. His reaction to the world around him is caught by the sticky entanglement of his residency status: is it short enough that he could live as a visitor? Or is it long enough that he is required to identify himself?

Yu-Ying holds a Bachelor of Architecture and a Master of Arts in Professional Writing and Publishing. His field of interest focuses on cultural differences as expressions of general topics, like colourful flowers on a common ground. He is interested in experimenting the nuance of languages through translating his own works into Mandarin, English and Japanese.