I remember the first time I made something that wasn't for myself.
It was winter. The snow had been falling for days. The streets were white. The roofs were white. The old town looked like a postcard. But I wasn't looking at the old town. I was in the basement. Xiao Liu was upstairs. Old Li was at work. Master Zhang was at the stove. I was alone.
I had saved things. Cabbage leaves from the market. The ones no one wanted. Wilted. Brown at the edges. Flour from the kitchen. A little. Not enough to make bread. Enough to make something small. Oil from the restaurant. Used once. Still good. And the doubanjiang. My mother's. The jar she had packed in my bag before I left Chongqing. I had been saving it. For something.
I didn't know what.
I made the dough. Mixed flour and water. Kneaded it on the floor. The basement floor was cold. Concrete. Gray. The dough was sticky at first. Then it came together. Smooth. I rolled it thin. Not thin enough. But it was the best I could do.
I chopped the cabbage. Fine. Small pieces. Mixed it with the doubanjiang. A little. The jar was almost empty. I had to be careful.
I made the rolls. Small. Tight. The dough was thick. It didn't want to hold. I pressed harder. My fingers were cold. The cracks on my knuckles opened. A little blood. I wiped it on my pants.
I found a small pan in the kitchen. No one was there. The oil was hot. I put the rolls in. They sizzled. The sound was loud. Too loud. I looked at the door. No one came.
They turned brown fast. I took them out. Too dark. Some were burned on one side, pale on the other. They were ugly. I knew they were ugly.
I put them on a plate. I stood in the basement. Looking at them.
I didn't know who they were for.
I remember the first time Anna tasted something I made.
I took the plate upstairs. It was afternoon. The restaurant was quiet. Lunch was over. Dinner hadn't started. Xiao Liu was wiping tables. Master Zhang was smoking by the back door. Lin was in the front, counting something.
Anna was at her stand. There were no customers. The light was gray. Winter light.
I walked across the street. The snow was packed hard. My shoes slipped. I held the plate steady.
She saw me coming. She smiled. The way she always smiled. Like she was glad to see me. Like she had been waiting.
"What is that?" she said.
"Spring rolls," I said. "Chinese."
She looked at them. They were ugly. Brown. Uneven. Some were burned.
"I made them," I said.
She looked at me. Her eyes were blue. Light blue. Like the sky when the snow stops.
She took one. Bit into it. Chewed. Her face didn't change.
I watched her. My hands were behind my back. The cracks were open. I could feel the cold air on them.
She chewed for a long time.
"Good," she said.
I didn't believe her. "You don't have to say that."
She took another bite. Chewed. Swallowed.
"It's good," she said again.
She ate the whole thing. Then she took another. Ate that one too.
I stood there. My hands behind my back. The cold air on my cracked skin.
She finished the second one. She looked at the plate. Three left.
"You should be a cook," she said.
I shook my head. "I wash dishes."
She touched my hand. Her fingers were cold. But the bread rolls in her stand were warm. I could feel the heat coming from them. Through the cold.
"You will be," she said.
She let go of my hand. She took another spring roll. Bit into it.
I went back across the street. The snow was still packed hard. My shoes slipped. I didn't fall.
I remember the taste I was trying to make.
It wasn't the spring roll in my hand. It was something else. Something from before.
In Chongqing, there was a street near my school. Old street. Narrow. The buildings leaned toward each other. You could almost touch both sides if you stretched your arms. There was a woman there. She sold spring rolls from a cart. Every afternoon. After school. I would buy one. Sometimes two. If I had money. She wrapped them in brown paper. The oil soaked through. You could see the spot on the paper. Dark. Greasy.
I would walk home eating them. The street was steep. You had to walk slow or you'd fall. The buildings were gray. The sky was gray. But the spring roll was hot. Crispy. The cabbage inside was salty. A little sweet. I never knew what she put in it. She never told anyone.
I tried to make that taste. In the basement. With wilted cabbage. With flour from the kitchen. With the doubanjiang my mother packed in my bag.
I couldn't.
It wasn't the same. It was never going to be the same. But Anna said it was good. And that was something.
I remember the second time I made spring rolls.
I made them for Old Li. He was sick. He didn't know it yet. Or maybe he did. He was coughing more. His hands were shaking when he lit his cigarettes. He was still working. Still washing. Still cutting. Still smoking.
I made the rolls. Same as before. Cabbage. Flour. Doubanjiang. A little oil. They were better this time. Less burned. The wrapper was thinner. I had practiced.
I took them down to the basement. He was sitting on his bed. A cigarette between his fingers. The smoke was rising to the light.
"What's that?" he said.
"Spring rolls," I said. "Made them."
He looked at them. He didn't say anything. He put out his cigarette. Took one. Bit into it. Chewed.
His face didn't change.
"Not bad," he said.
He ate the whole thing. Then he took another.
"You made these?" he said.
I nodded.
He looked at me for a long time. His eyes were small. Squinting. Like he was trying to see something far away.
"Your mother teach you?" he said.
"No," I said. "She sold things. Not food. My father cooked. He had a noodle stand."
"Where is he now?"
"Dead."
He didn't say anything. He finished the second spring roll. Then he lay down on his bed. He didn't light another cigarette.
"You should keep cooking," he said. His eyes were closed.
I sat on my bed. The light was dim. The water in the pipes was running. Low. Far away.
I remember the day I understood what Old Li meant.
It wasn't that day. It was later. After he was gone. After the basement was empty. After the smell of his cigarettes faded from the walls.
I was at the stove. Making fried rice. For a customer. My hands were steady. The fire was right. Not too hot. Not too cold. The rice was turning gold. The egg was soft. The scallions were green.
I thought about Old Li. About his son. About the photo in the bed frame. About the cigarettes. About the spring roll he ate that night. The way he said "not bad." The way he lay down after. Without lighting another cigarette.
I thought about what he said. "You have something. Don't waste it."
I didn't know what it was then. I still don't know. But I was at the stove. Making fried rice. For a customer. And I was not wasting it.
I remember the spring after Old Li died.
I made spring rolls again. For Anna. She was still at her stand. The snow was gone. The streets were wet. The light was different. Not gray anymore. Almost yellow.
I took them across the street. She was alone. No customers.
"Spring rolls," I said.
She smiled. Took one. Bit into it. Chewed.
"Good," she said.
I sat down next to her. The bench behind her stand was small. Our shoulders almost touched.
"I made them for Old Li once," I said. "Before he died."
She was quiet. Chewing.
"He said 'not bad,'" I said. "That was the most he ever said about anything."
She finished the spring roll. Took another.
"You miss him," she said.
I didn't answer.
She put her hand on mine. Her fingers were cold. The bread rolls behind her were warm. I could feel the heat on my back.
"He was right," she said. "About you. You have something."
I looked at her. Her eyes were blue. Light blue. The same color as the sky when the snow stops.
"What?" I said.
She didn't answer. She ate the spring roll. Then she stood up.
"I have to work," she said. She smiled. "You should make more. I'll eat them."
She went back to her stand. I stayed on the bench. The light was yellow. The streets were wet. The old town was still there. Red. Yellow. Blue. Cobblestones. Not slippery anymore.
I sat there for a long time. Then I went back across the street. The kitchen was loud. Master Zhang was at the stove. Xiao Liu was wiping tables. Lin was in the front. I went to the sink. The water was cold. I put my hands in. The cracks were closed now. Scars. White lines on my knuckles.
I washed dishes. The rhythm came back. The sound of water. The clink of plates.
I thought about spring rolls. About Old Li. About Anna. About the taste I was trying to make. Something from before. Something from Chongqing. The narrow street. The woman with the cart. The brown paper. The oil soaking through.
I never made that taste. I never will. But I made something else. Something for Anna. Something for Old Li. Something for myself.
And that was something.