On language

and isolation.

My Cantonese is shit. I speak like a child because my language skills stopped developing when I went to primary school. My sister, who is three years older than me, kept speaking Cantonese when she went to school, and in the 90s, instead of having an ESL class available to her, they threatened to keep her back- the ultimate shame in the Chinese community. As a result, I was forbidden to speak Cantonese at home the day I started school.

It was a cruel and unusual torture because I felt like I was being censored. If I didn’t know how to say something, I just wouldn’t say it, because I’d be punished if I slipped back into Cantonese. This is probably a familiar origin story for any second-generation kid who speaks to their parents in English, while they respond in their mother tongue. Funnily enough, we become too shy to speak in our first language, and our parents’ English never improves. Ironically enough, my sister’s Cantonese has completely deteriorated and I still manage to get by in HK.

I can’t write in Cantonese because I am a shit Asian. I can read basic words like numbers, animals, directions and the words for rice and noodle, but that’s it. I grew up here and my English language skills were prioritised. Partly because my parents wanted me to excel at school, partly because I was being picked on for speaking English with an accent and I wanted to rub everyone’s dumb, little faces in with my superior language skills.

As an adult, I can tell fuckwits that my second language is better than their only, but at what cost?

Every Chinese New Year, I make an effort to cook auspicious food and deliver it to my grandmother. She lives close by, and it’s not that she isn’t invited to any family celebrations, it’s that our family celebrations are incredibly fractured (don’t make me explain it, just buy my book if you’re curious). This means that she hops around her kids’ homes over the 10 days of the new year eating bland food. I have one uncle who is obsessed with the heatiness of food, so everything they eat is just steamed sadness. Another uncle used to be rich, so he can’t cook for shit. He once made fried rice in front of me and used a jar of Kantong. I am still traumatised. Another uncle just moved here from HK, so doesn’t know how to cook at all because he is not used to having a kitchen. And my parents, well, they’re at the age where they throw everything together in a pot until it’s one homogenous flavour and texture.

Long story short: poor grandma.

This year, I had a real hankering for lor bak goh (radish cake). The English name is misleading because it is neither made with radishes nor a cake. It’s steamed daikon and rice flour studded with dried seafood and Chinese sausage that is set, sliced and pan-fried. You can usually find it at yum cha, but due to food costs and labour, it is usually 95% batter, 5% actual ingredients and 100% mid.

The concept of making the dish is pretty simple, it’s grated radish that is semi-cooked, mixed with diced rehydrated ingredients, set in a simple batter. The only problem is, I’ve cooked about a dozen recipes and none of them have ever been quite right. Some, I find too miserly with dried ingredients, some skimp on radish, and others are too jelly-like with their rice batter ratios. The truly shit ones have not been recipe tested and end up being a waste of time and effort.

This year, by combining a few techniques and fucking with quantities, I’ve finally made my perfect lor bak goh. It also helps that I have brought back premium dried goods from HK. As always, the quality of ingredients makes all the difference. I also use a combination of grated and julienned daikon for a better texture and superior flavour.

The way that my grandmother and I communicate is via voice notes on WhatsApp. When I sent her a message asking if she’d be home for a delivery, she was delighted. She may have even said she is glad she will have something decent to eat between all the sad, New Year dinners.

LOL, grandma. The savagery is hereditary.

When I got to her place, she was excited to see me, made a few superficial comments about my looks because that’s just our culture and we chatted for a bit. Admittedly, it was a struggle to hold a conversation for so long because the only time I speak Cantonese for more than a few sentences is when I am ordering food in HK. When she asked me why my sister was so busy, I didn’t have the vocabulary to say that she was finishing her masters in Child Play Therapy, so I simply said she’d gone back to school. Then, I wondered how my sister or her kids communicated with my grandmother.

My grandfather died about 20 years ago, and my grandmother never remarried, so she relies heavily on the elderly Cantonese community in between family visits. I wondered how she felt being unable to communicate with her great-grandchildren, and how lonely it must be. She’s been lucky enough to live long enough to have great-grandchildren, but ultimately, they’re strangers.

As I left, my grandmother clasped my hands with desperation, grateful that I came by and talked with her. The last thing I said to her was to pan-fry the pieces of lor bak goh before eating it, and she said, “Of course I will, who do you think I am, your uncle?”

The next day, my WhatsApp flooded with messages from family members because my grandmother bragged to them that I delivered her edible food. Each message also contained a little dig like, “How does a white-washed child like you know how to cook so much Chinese food?” Ah, family.

Then I realised that all my grandmother wanted to do was gossip with me, but my Canto is too childish. My goal between now and the next time I see her is to brush up on my shit-talking skills. Then, I can bring her edible food and bag out the rest of my family. The woman is in her 90s. I should give her what she really wants.

Lor Bak Goh
makes one 8-inch pan’s worth