The meaning of a Dumpling
By Sunny Chung
“Until the land is fat with fruit, I shall feed the poor! Give them my ears, give them my feet—I shall feed them all!”
This was the general sentiment when a chubby Emperor of China fashioned the first dumpling. From flower, water, and oil there came a dough soft as a baby’s cheek. He rolled it out into a flat moon shape, dolloping meat and vegetables inside. Using his thumb, he pleated the dough into an ear-shaped parcel. Thus, the dumpling was born; a meaty delight of sustaining fat and stock that lingers on the tongue, warming the oesophagus as it slips down into the belly. There it would sit, nursing your ailments for the rest of the night.
The Emperor shovelled dumplings into the mouths of his people, saving them from their starvation.
Often do I recall this story as I stand over my stove, watching steam coil in dragon tails from my bamboo baskets. Moisture fattens the air, filling it with a buttery stench of dim sum. In Chinese culture we don’t say, “I love you.” We say, “Have you eaten?”
It is an emotional constipation that seems to transcend time itself. We all fear the demon named hunger that can claw a hollow in our children’s stomachs—feasting on their flesh from the inside out. And so we protect each other; warding hunger off by keeping each other fed. Have you eaten yet? Meals are designed to be a social event. Especially one such as dim sum; where fragrant flavours mingle upon a large spinning table, waiting to be pecked at by a dozen pairs of chopsticks. I remember it well.
Perhaps this was the birthplace of my loneliness. A lone woman standing over a stove, cooking strange food from a strange foreign place in a strange little basket. Those old friends who I’d longed to share such a meal with remain back home where I left them. Newer faces are not so favourable.
It is hard to share a meal with men whose ancestors pumped poppies into your homeland. Colonialism peppers all walks of history—even one so innocent as dumplings. I do not seek to blame anyone in particular. Though part of me longs to one day host a meal where men, women, and others of all multi-colours and cultures can rejoice over a spinning tabletop of dim sum, passing plates and folding dumplings until the end of the world itself.
Not all hope is lost. I found myself a silly boy of coconut curls, and freckles that draw constellations over his pretty shoulders. We are as different as the sun to the moon, and yet we are no aliens to each other. I’ve watched him fold his lumpy dumplings, murmuring in his broken Cantonese, “Have you eaten?” Dumplings are not to be hoarded, but shared.
To share a meal with another is to offer them your heart, and thus it must be respected. Much like the Emperor who so long ago gifted his dumplings to the people of China, we present ours to you in hope of spreading love once more. Dumplings are a gift to be passed down. Savoured. Cherished. Let their rich flavours of sesame and spring onion linger in your recollection. Let it be a thing you desire. Let it remind you of what love really means.
Ah… have you eaten yet?
JUDGE'S COMMENT
"The history of the dumpling takes on a new meaning with Sunny Chungs heartfelt deconstruction of the meaning it holds for them. With the memories of childhood and family dinners surrounding the dinner table permeating every line ‘The meaning of a Dumpling’ has you longing to pull up a chair and bask in the warmth of each line, while still slipping in nuanced social commentary along the way." |
"Sunny’s writing style is absolutely delightful, bringing a rich undercurrent of humour to very serious observations and concepts. In this piece, they use food as a conduit for all manner of loves – love of family, community, and heritage. So often, being culturally specific is the best way to appeal generally, and that’s definitely the case here. I feel like everyone can see themselves in Sunny’s discussion of how important food is to Chinese culture. The fact that so much depth is crammed into a piece of writing about food is a real testament to their talent." |
ABOUT THE AUTHOR - Sunny Chung
I’m a second year BA Actor at Bristol Old Vic Theatre School, currently residing in Bristol city centre. I’ve lived across Asia for the greater portion of my life—most predominantly Singapore and Hong Kong. Home is where my shoes are. A third-culture childhood has brought me verbal fluency in five languages but writing proficiency in (practically) none. Additionally, an addiction to crochet has drastically increased the teddybear population within my flat within the last couple of years. My greatest obsessions in life revolve around acting and writing. Without them, I would surely perish. |
What attracted you to the artform? Was there a particular inspiration?
I’ve always adored the medium of writing. To be able to evoke emotion in a person solely through a few black words on a white page is perhaps the closest thing to magic our mortal selves can come to imagine. I crave to understand what transforms a word into a feeling. It’s invigorating stuff. A big inspiration for me were the myriad of first generation Chinese immigrants I’ve come to know throughout my life. Some of their struggles have been severe, and while I dislike highlighting negativity, many of these immigrants have never had the ability to voice themselves within our English language. Now that I’m blessed with fluency, I feel the need to use it. To tell a story that honours those who couldn’t tell their own.
How did you learn to do this artform? Were there any challenges?
I’ve been writing since I was young, and nearly attended university to study creative writing in 2018. This ultimately led to a great panic of, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph what am I doing with my life?!” swiftly followed by me dropping out of university to pursue drama school. Although my sights have since been set on nurturing the thespian within, my love affair with writing has never dwindled. In fact, it seems to grow in intensity the older I become. My greatest challenge has been a neurological one. I work with a fresh diagnosis of dyslexia, and although it doesn’t hinder my writing style it most certainly hinders my spelling. Not once have I ever spelled the world storage correctly without the aid of a word processor. Storage. Storidge. Store age. Even now it haunts me. Additionally I’m rather over critical of myself, which is merely a byproduct of being a creative. We’ve all been there. The important thing is that, in spite of these challenges—neurological or self-imposed—I continue to try.
What is a tip that you would give to somebody else looking to get started in this artform?
I don’t subscribe to the philosophy that some people are talented and others aren’t. With enough hours of effort, anyone can achieve a professional level of skill (said the armature writer, unpaid and unskilled). Perhaps that would make one feel less special for being good at something, though I also reject this sentiment. It takes a certain someone to really put the effort in. So, if that’s what you want, put the bloody effort in.
Is this something you think you will continue to do?
Yes
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