My father always cut the lotus root. Every Lunar New Year, the–crack, crack, crack–of his knife set the soundtrack for our family’s preparations. One by one the slices fell into a pool of water to keep them crisp, their holey exteriors peering upon him like little eyes. Later, he patted them dry and found each slice a home in a pocket of dough in a blanket of minced pork and scallion. He pan fried each until golden brown and pulled flat cylinders of goodness out of the oil, huffing and dusting off his hands on his trousers in satisfaction.

I never touched those pockets. I fled the kitchen as my father hauled the roots onto the countertops. I used to call them his ‘greasy abominations’: they were too greasy, too crunchy, too strange. Made the taste buds in my mouth squirm.

Instead, I took refuge on my mother’s side of the kitchen, helping her fold spring rolls into thick cigars, far away from the mess my father was making. He never seemed to mind. If I wrinkled my nose at his food, he’d only chuckle–“This one doesn’t know what’s good!”--and pat my head with his starchy hands. I’d groan and wipe down my hair immediately after.

At the dinner table, chaos always reigned. Our chopsticks clashed, turning into naval forces from below and airway attacks from above, swerving and diving for every last morsel and crumb. Battle cries wretched from my younger brother as he whined relentlessly for the lotus pockets he could barely reach–I dodged his attack, and snatched the pocket just in the nick of time. I ate it, and chewed slowly–deliberately–in my brother’s face. It was greasy–disgusting even, but the taste of victory far outweighed the oil that coated my mouth. I remember the rumble of my father’s laugh–like seismic waves beneath my seat.

“Aiya, so amusing!” A chalked hand reached for my head amidst our fray, and I swerved in a brisk move:

 “Stop! Ganma? What d’you think you’re doing?” I rudely bit. I swatted at his hand.

 “Whaat? Sha? You’re too precious!” he laughed.

“I told you I’m not like, six anymore!”

He smiled and only stacked more pockets–one after another–atop my plate. 

“Oh my gosh, can you stooop?” I fought his chopsticks off. “No, no, no, no, stooop, I don’t want the-e-em! Ugh…”

My father laughed harder, his glee unwavering. But I left the pockets untouched. 

He left for China that fall, when the air just began to turn away from the warmth. He’d wished to see his mother, who was too weak to leave the small apartment complex she called home.

“I’ll be back before New Years,” he said. He stroked my hair, an old habit, then swiveled his suitcase toward security. One step, two steps, three—each footfall quieter than the last until, finally, he disappeared into the gates.

 I wasn’t sure how to feel. I was his daughter, he was my father, qīn diē, and anyone else, any other good daughter would have felt sad to see him go. I’m sure I did, but beneath that sadness, buried somewhere deep and small, was a drop of… relief. 

Relief that the house might grow a little quieter. That I wouldn’t have to rid my hair of the pasty flour on my father’s hands as I squirmed away. Relief that I’d finally have a peaceful dinner where I wouldn’t have to constantly dodge the spoonfuls of food aimed at flying towards my mouth. Relief that, for once, I wouldn't have to shove away yet another plate of heaping steamed pumpkin at lunch, that despite my protests my father, with his insistent grin, wouldn’t be pushing them toward me saying “Eat a little more, you will quickly learn to love them.”

Of course, I never said any of this out loud. Relief is a feeling you don’t share, especially not when it’s tangled with guilt.

And so I kept my relief quiet, hoping it would vanish eventually.

But then the borders closed.

At first, they were just whispers of a virus. A small contaminant in a small village in big ol’ China. But it kept on spreading. And spreading. And spreading, catching new victims everyday like fire on dry brush. Then came the news that everything–buildings, airports, borders, entire countries–were shutting down. My father called one evening. “It’s just for a short while,” he said, “Don’t worry–bié dānxīn.” 

But weeks stretched, stretched into months without any certainty, and New Year’s etched closer and closer. The feelings I had once kept quiet had disappeared–and turned into something else. It pressed against the walls of his workshop, weighed at the empty table of our dining table, and rumbled deep below the kitchen floors where my father’s laugh once rang.

Lunar New Year was just around the corner and there was no sign of his return. The preparations began anyway–of course, my mother upheld her duty to the spring rolls, though she didn’t hum to her favorite C-pop tunes as she usually did, and her movements almost seemed slower than last year. My younger brother, useless but whose existence was ever so unignorable, whined for the lotus roots he so longed. He wanted only the ones my father made–the ones I didn’t eat, the ones I had called nasty.

“Pleaseee, please!” he begged.

“Go away, do it yourself!”

But how could I let him? He could barely memorize his multiplication table, nonetheless wield knives and play with hot oil. So that day, I found myself in the kitchen, staring down the cold lotus roots that sat on the counter. 

The first cut was hard.

 The stalk didn’t yield the way I expected, and my hand slipped, sending the knife skittering across the cutting board. I sighed and tried again, gripping the knife tighter, pressing harder. Crack. I nearly jumped from the sound—it was sharper, louder than I remembered. Unlike the light and steady beat that used to flow from my father’s hands. It was hard. The sound, it was piercing to the ears, and uncomfortably uneven–jagged and ugly.

I kept cutting. Each slice fell into the bow of cold water, their holes staring back at me like tiny eyes. They stared and judged, unblinking, unmoving. The rhythm—slow, unsteady at first—started to feel familiar. I dusted my hands on my red pajama pants, and wondered if they’d be wet with starch by the end, like my father’s.

My brother wandered into the kitchen and peered over my shoulder. “They don’t look like Baba’s,” he said matter-of-factly, like I didn’t already know.

“I know,”

By the time the roots were sliced and ready, my hands were trembling. My father could cut them in half the time, maybe even a third, and make the whole thing look elegant. He was strong. Very strong. I set the knife down and walked to the jar of pickled radishes on the counter: his secret ingredient. He said he added them ‘cause he liked how subtly they enhanced the flavor, but I think it’s just so he could snack on them while he made the pockets.

 I tried to open the jar, gripping the lid with all the strength I had left. I oomfed and strained, twisting hard until my palms ached from friction. For a second, I almost called out, “Baba!” out of habit. He would’ve opened it in one twist, laughing at me for trying and stroked my hair to numb my defeat. But he was halfway across the world, and the kitchen stayed silent, save for the faint hum of the AC.

I sighed and tried again, this time using the edge of my shirt to get a better grip. The lid finally popped, the faint hiss of air escaping, and I nearly flinched, like I’d won a battle I didn’t ask for.

I stood there for a moment, staring into the jar. The vegetables were tangled and pale, soaking in sugar and sourness until the hard edges softened, flavors uniting. I had always wondered how the sharp bitterness of radish could turn into something so succulent and sweet.

My father always said that it was the “power of the brine.”

 “It’s very hard, to change the hard and bitter luóbo,” he would say, “Luóbo is radish, remember.”

“Yeah yeah, I knooow.” I groaned. I was pretty sure he said that only to remind himself.

 “Well,” he continued, “the luóbo, it changes because the brine is very mighty. Very powerful.”

“How? It’s only vinegar.”

“The brine, he has… a quiet strength. In Chinese, we call it jué xīn. Erm, like, how to say something is strong, does not give up easily? Keep going?”

“Um,” I hesitated. “It has persistence?”

“Shì de! Yes!” my father’s face lit up. “The brine has very good persistence. You just have to keep going. Just like the brine, day after day. One day, it will succeed. And the radish will turn into yummy pickles, ready for you to eat!”

 “You mean ready for you to eat! You like them more than me!” We laughed. 

I hadn’t thought about that conversation in years. Back then, I’d laughed and shrugged it off as one of his strange sayings. But now, when I looked down at the brine, it kind of reminded me of him. My father, who never rushed, never gave up. The man who spent years trying to carve out a life for us, who faced rejection after rejection with quiet determination. Eight times, he stood in line at the consulate, clutching his papers, trying to get to the United States. Eight times, they said no, as if trying to see when he’d break. But on the ninth try, they picked up a different stamp. They picked up a different stamp and when it slammed down on my father’s papers, he finally tasted victory, paving the way for the life I now get to call my own.

I gripped the jar a little tighter. My father always made things look easy—whether it was slicing lotus roots in clean, even pieces or working through what should have been impossible.

And it wasn’t just that. He’d stayed persistent with us, too—through my squeals, my protests, my swatting hands when he tousled my hair. “Stop!” I’d shriek. But he’d just laugh, shaking his head. It was the same persistence I had hated so much that was the reason we had everything we did. He was always steady, always sure, whether it was fixing a broken toy even though it ended up much uglier than before, folding dumplings so neatly they looked store-bought, or staying up late to patch the leaky faucet that no one else bothered with.

I blinked quickly as tears rolled down my cheeks. It was the vinegar I’m sure: that sharp sting in the air, making my eyes water because I’d left the jar open too long. I sniffled a couple times. I heard a small tap in the doorway then turned my head so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash, half-expecting him to walk through the door. He’d see me, smirk, and say something like, “What’s this? Tears for pickles?”

I wiped my face with the back of my hand and turned back to the counter. The lotus root sat there, knobby and pale. I grabbed the knife and kept moving. By the time I mixed the filling—minced pork, scallions, a dash of soy sauce—and scooped it onto the dough, my fingers were clumsy. The folds came out uneven, the edges threatening to split. My father’s pockets were always perfect crescents, dough smooth and floured like a powdered baby’s butt. Mine were misshapen lumps of feces.

Still, I pressed on.

When the pockets hit the oil, they sizzled loudly, filling the kitchen with that greasy, familiar smell. I served them on a plastic, blue china plate, their edges a little too browned, their shapes imperfect. My brother picked one up and took a bite. “They’re not the same,” he said, chewing slowly.

“I know!” I jabbed at him. I sighed. Deeply. “At least you have pockets this year.” 

“Sorry,” he said timidly. “I like them though.”

My heart fluttered.

* * *

It became a quiet ritual after that.

I started making little things in the kitchen—not just lotus root pockets, but other dishes too. I’d spend a whole Saturday morning fumbling through recipes, trying to recreate the dishes he used to make. Shiitake and enoki soup that tasted way too bland or way too salty, scallion pancakes that stuck to the pan and ripped, spring rolls with wrappers that cracked before they even hit the oil. Nothing turned out quite right though, but it felt good.

At the counter, sleeves pushed up and hands dusted in flour, I stopped worrying so much about getting it right. The first few times were a mess—flour poofing all over the counter, hands and marble caked in broken eggs—but I kept at it. It didn’t take long for my mother and brother to wander in, drawn by the patter and clatter and smell of something frying.

My brother was the loudest, of course, pointing out every crooked fold and uneven edge. “That one’s going to explode,” he’d say, snickering as I shoved him away. But he stayed, messing around with scraps of dough, folding lopsided shapes he’d proudly hold up before laughing at himself. My mother, more subtle, would step in here and there—“No, like this”—her hands quick and sure as she fixed what I’d botched.

It wasn’t always smooth—we argued over the stove and swapped complaints about the mess—but we kept going, teasing and laughing as we worked. The quiet didn’t feel so heavy anymore, not with the sound of oil sizzling, my brother’s jokes, and my mother’s occasional hums filling the space.

“You call that a dumpling?” my brother said, poking at one of my misshapen creations. “Dad’s were still better.” He grinned as I threw a handful of flour at him, which only made him laugh harder.

“You two,” she said, flicking water at the pan and stepping in to salvage my uneven folds. My mother shook her head at us but didn’t bother to hide her smile.

* * *

Nearly two years passed before he came home.

It was winter when we picked him up at the airport. The cold wind bit at my cheeks–it was the type of cold that seeped into your skin no matter how many parkas or scarves or hats you wore.  I stood with my mother and brother near the arrival gate. My brother bounced on his heels, peering through the crowds of travelers, while my mother clutched her scarf, her hands trembling just slightly from the leftover cold.

I kept my eyes on the gate. Travelers trickled out in slow bursts: some rushing, some wandering, all pulling tired suitcases behind them. Faces began to blur together–one after another, a steady stream of passengers percolating from the escalators.

Then I saw him.

He was thinner than I remembered, and his hair more streaked with gray, but his walk—still slouched and duck-like—was the same. He wore his old coat, the gray one with lightly stained sleeves, and his suitcase dragged a little behind him. For a moment, he just stood there, searching for us with tired eyes.

When he saw me, his face broke into a smile.

We walked toward each other, and he dropped his suitcase with a soft thud. He patted my brother’s head first, then pulled my mother into a long embrace, his hands holding her shoulders as though to make sure she was real.

And then he turned to me. I stared at him for a second, in sort of a shock, or awe, of the person standing in front of me. I blinked, and quickly whipped out the lotus root pockets I had made the night before—perfectly sliced, tightly folded.

“They look good,” he said, inspecting one with a smile.

I stood still, uncertain what to do.

“Yeah. I’ve practiced.” was all I could afford to say.

“Will we get to eat them when we get home?”

“Yeah. I’ll finish all the food you give me.”

He chuckled. He reached out, his familiar hand—rough and chalky in my memory–stroking my hair the way he always used to.

This time, I didn’t pull away. I didn’t flinch or swat him off.

This time, I let him.

He laughed softly, his voice warm and mellow like egg drop soup.

“You’ve grown,” he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Yeah,” I whispered, my throat tight.

“I guess I have.”

My story is heavily based off my own journey with my father during lockdown.