Ba Wan
By: Hannah Chu (she/her)
I grew up with the savory aroma of marinated minced pork and bamboo shoots drifting through the air and infusing itself into the very structure of my home. I would sprint to the kitchen and find myself faced with the sight of my grandma stuffing her porcelain plates with the meticulously crafted filling until it overflowed to its tipping point. The mound of meat was then painted with a white paste made of rice flour and water and placed into a steamer until it magically transformed into a gelatinous clear dome right before my eyes. Witnessing the creation of this dish, Ba Wan, was the pinnacle of my childhood life.
“It’s time for dinner!”
I move from the kitchen, where I just witnessed the birth of the dish, to the dining room, leaving mere inches of space between my grandma and I as she brings her coveted meal to the table. Before the rest of my family even gathers around the dining table, my restless arms reach toward the center and grab one of the porcelain plates. I briskly dump sweet and sour sauce over the dome and shove it into my drooling mouth.
I have only ever had Ba Wan in one other place, Taiwan. Just one taste of the pork and bamboo concoction instantly brings me back to the feeling of hot air blowing against my face in the Shilin night market where I ecstatically grasp a bowl of mango shaved ice in one hand and spicy Taiwanese popcorn chicken in the other.
It wasn’t always like this.
After my mom accepted her new job working at a Taiwanese airline company, employee benefits came in the form of free annual tickets for our family. Taking advantage of this, she began to book tickets for me to travel to Taiwan every summer alone. I always dreaded the day I had to board the plane and fly miles away from those I had spent each and every day of my life with.
Through the years, however, the more that distance separated me from my family, the more I understood my mother’s reasons for sending me to Taiwan.
Although isolated from my nuclear family members, I was surprised to find that despite being surrounded by unfamiliar faces, no one felt as though they were a stranger. Everyone spoke a language I had so long associated with the idea of home and greeted me with smiles that I could only describe as seeing a long-lost relative once again. I entered rooms teeming with lively conversations and laughter coupled with the sizzles of countless dishes being prepared in the backroom. Large plates piled high with glossy meats and vegetables became the centerpieces of each table, with the seemingly youngest pair of hands distributing the food to each empty plate. This scene, uncommonly seen in western culture, formed the backbone of Taiwanese communities and paralleled my own family back home.
8,021 miles away from the dining table that my family shared our meals on lies the land I once antagonized with every atom of my being. Today, as I hand my grandma a plate of Ba Wan from the center of the table, I realize the resemblance between my family and the people of Taiwan. The line separating the two has steadily begun to fade, and the comfort I find in the formerly foreign country has allowed it to become my new safe haven. Eliciting feelings that bring communities together, food acts as the binding agent to society, like the gelatinous dome that encapsulates the filling of the renowned Ba Wan.
“It’s time for dinner!”
I move from the kitchen, where I just witnessed the birth of the dish, to the dining room, leaving mere inches of space between my grandma and I as she brings her coveted meal to the table. Before the rest of my family even gathers around the dining table, my restless arms reach toward the center and grab one of the porcelain plates. I briskly dump sweet and sour sauce over the dome and shove it into my drooling mouth.
I have only ever had Ba Wan in one other place, Taiwan. Just one taste of the pork and bamboo concoction instantly brings me back to the feeling of hot air blowing against my face in the Shilin night market where I ecstatically grasp a bowl of mango shaved ice in one hand and spicy Taiwanese popcorn chicken in the other.
It wasn’t always like this.
After my mom accepted her new job working at a Taiwanese airline company, employee benefits came in the form of free annual tickets for our family. Taking advantage of this, she began to book tickets for me to travel to Taiwan every summer alone. I always dreaded the day I had to board the plane and fly miles away from those I had spent each and every day of my life with.
Through the years, however, the more that distance separated me from my family, the more I understood my mother’s reasons for sending me to Taiwan.
Although isolated from my nuclear family members, I was surprised to find that despite being surrounded by unfamiliar faces, no one felt as though they were a stranger. Everyone spoke a language I had so long associated with the idea of home and greeted me with smiles that I could only describe as seeing a long-lost relative once again. I entered rooms teeming with lively conversations and laughter coupled with the sizzles of countless dishes being prepared in the backroom. Large plates piled high with glossy meats and vegetables became the centerpieces of each table, with the seemingly youngest pair of hands distributing the food to each empty plate. This scene, uncommonly seen in western culture, formed the backbone of Taiwanese communities and paralleled my own family back home.
8,021 miles away from the dining table that my family shared our meals on lies the land I once antagonized with every atom of my being. Today, as I hand my grandma a plate of Ba Wan from the center of the table, I realize the resemblance between my family and the people of Taiwan. The line separating the two has steadily begun to fade, and the comfort I find in the formerly foreign country has allowed it to become my new safe haven. Eliciting feelings that bring communities together, food acts as the binding agent to society, like the gelatinous dome that encapsulates the filling of the renowned Ba Wan.