China Dreaming

Every so often I catch a whiff of China in the air. Plaster construction dust. Cigarette smoke. A hint of garlic, onion— something being fried. And sometimes it’s just pollution, hanging heavy in the white grey London sky. I breathe it in, smile to myself and then it’s gone.  But mostly, I just dream of China.

Last night I went back to Kunming. I wandered streets I once knew, looking for shaokao and finding instead modern mega-restaurants charging $150/head for a meal. Wenlinjie and its cafes had been replaced with a multistory glass and steel shopping mall. A friend who’d once owned the legendary Camel Bar and done odd jobs for local crime bosses now drove for Uber. 

My China dreams are vivid and memorable. Simultaneously unsettling and comforting. And they’ve increased tenfold since the start of the pandemic. China dream-no dream-childhood house dream-no dream-nightmare-China dream. Repeat. For two years now. And I like it. I like the hints of memory and youth creeping back into my waking consciousness. I like it just as I like the smell of construction dust mixed with stale smoke. I travel with my mind. And with my senses.  And in my kitchen. 

So this past week, I’ve made kungpao chicken, twice-cooked Swiss chard, tofu with peppers, fried rice, chicken and chestnuts, vegetables with fermented black beans, Sichuan mashed potatoes, most from @fuchiadunlop recipes and with @pipersfarm chicken. 

I get such a kick out of the fact that my American-Scottish-Iranian toddler is growing up with this kind of food. It’s not in our blood, but it is in my heart and soul. And, well, at the risk of sounding absurdly cheesy, isn’t that what food and cooking should be all about— sharing what we love with those we love?