The Burden of a Family Tradition

Any spring-roll tradition spreads to only a tiny area, a fact that the natives of Southern Fujian alone understand. Even though Xiamen and Quanzhou are both located in Southern Fujian, they are always in competition, each boasting its spring-roll as the best. They continue to refine their respective spring-rolls year by year, bring them to even greater gastronomical heights.

One can't assume that outsiders have tasted the orthodox spring-roll just because they have lived and worked in Xiamen for many years. Yes, all the stalls on Xiamen's main streets sell spring-rolls. They look more or less alike, but the spring-rolls you find there could taste as different as a radish from its wispy roots.

Is it true that northerners serve dumplings to honored guests and the Southerners spring-rolls? Not necessarily true. Even the President should not assume that he would be served spring-rolls when he is in the south. First it must be the right season, which starts around the Spring Festival (the New Year) and continues until Ching Ming (Festival of Ghosts) in April. Beyond that point most of the ingredients have passed their prime. For example, oysters by then would have grown old and taste fishy. The second requirement is time. Adequate time must be set aside for preparations as each ingredient must be carefully cleaned and finely sliced. The third condition is the right mood. Of course, you don't need to be as reverent as when you are writing poetry. But on the other hand, you wouldn't want to be distracted or upset. You could slice off a finger.

After the first frost, the principles of spring-roll making begin to mobilize. True, the flat pan for making the skin has yet to be installed. And the bushels of sea-weed are still drying in the warm sun on the rooftops. Cabbage, too, is still “bony” and tough even after cooking. Carrots still have wrinkles, and are not crisp and shiny. Oysters have not yet been baptized in the spring rain, and are not plump enough. But even so, the tempo quickens, the curtain is about to rise, and the spring-roll aficionado's index finger quivers with excitement.

Finally the jade-like pea pod makes its entrance. Cilantro is by now big and tender. Little stalls selling the skins line up in the streets in dragon-like formations. Housewives leave the markets with one shoulder weighted down by—what else but their heavy shopping baskets. Pork laced with fat is sliced into fine strips and sautéed; firm tofu is also sliced and sautéed to a rich golden sheen. Cabbage, garlic, bean sprouts, carrots, mushroom, bamboo shoots are each finely sliced and cooked. Then they are tossed together and stir-fried with fresh peeled shrimp, oysters, fish shreds and slivers of tofu and meat. Finally, all go into a large pot to simmer slowly.

So far we have merely taken care of the main topic—the filling. There's more than that to spring-roll making. The skins, usually bought at the stalls, must be paper-thin and resilient, so as not to tear. In wrapping, a hot sauce is first spread on the skin, followed by cilantro and fried sea weed. Then add the well-cooked filling, squeezing out the excess juice, and molding the whole into a loaf-shaped mound. On top of this, sprinkle a few thin threads of leek, cilantro, shreds of scrambled eggs, and a touch of brown sugar. Roll it up and now you have a spring roll. The novice wastes so much time wondering “What goes next?” that the skin becomes soaked and breaks before it's rolled up. As for children, they are greedy and pile on everything in excess, so that grown-ups must add another layer of skin to keep the roll intact. It's for this reason that Lu Xun once pointed out that the spring-roll eaten by the Xiamen people resembles a little pillow.

I once visited an office staffed by people from outside Xiamen. A few of the women there had the audacity to think they could commandeer the art of making spring-rolls. They took out their pen and paper and asked me to give them the recipe. I dutifully listed all the ingredients. They looked at each other in dismay and nobody reached out for the recipe. But when I returned later, they confidently asked me to stay for lunch, because now they have spring-rolls everyday. I took one look. What they called a spring-roll was bread baked flat and thick, rolled around a mixture of bean sprouts. Come to think of it, we also call them spring-rolls, Fuzhou-style spring rolls.

In Xiamen, spring-roll making is like courtship. The skin is so delicate, handling it feels like treading on thin ice. The care given to its preparation is so detailed it resembles massaging a lover's psyche. Careful attention goes into selecting the ingredients so that the taste of sweet, sour, pungent and spicy is a felicitous blend of surprise and curiosity, melancholy and ecstasy.

By the time of the spring-roll goes to Quanzhou, the stage is set for the matrimonial contract. There the well-simmered vegetable filling is the mainstay. The shrimp, eggs, oyster, flat fish and other delicacies are served separately on individual plates. Picking one or rejecting another is done with full awareness of the consequences.

But when the spring roll arrives in Fuzhou, alas, it has settled into married life—poorly merchandised, beating a quick retreat with the skin as thick as the lid of a pot and only bean sprouts of filling. To give it its due, however, it fills the stomach.

The ninety-year-old husband of one of my aunts has lived in the Philippines for over sixty years, but he always returns to Xiamen in the winter for spring-rolls. As if to make my father's life easier, he instructed my father to use only the juices from cooked chicken, oysters, and scallops. After a long pause my father asked, “What shall I do with the chicken, oyster, and scallop that's left?”
In many families of southern Fujian, making spring-rolls is an important tradition passed down for generations. In my younger days I spent the better part of my school vacations cutting vegetables and grating carrots. Because I had wasted so many of my precious holiday hours on this tedious activity I positively disliked spring-rolls.

But by now, nostalgia has sweetened the bitter experience. My aunt told us that, after marrying into a wealthy family, at New Year's she always led the team of four servant girls in slicing vegetables in the courtyard until all ten of her fingers were blistered. At the New Year's Eve dinner, she would wait on her mother-in-law, and the old lady would hand her a half eaten spring-roll to taste. That's called benevolence. Her story made us shudder and her “spring-roll complex” left a lasting effect on us. On every new year's eve, we children would invariably stuff ourselves sick with spring rolls; then after doses of vinegar forced down our throats and massaging of the stomach area, we would finally get up at midnight and throw up.

I vowed countless times that when I married, no one would demand spring rolls of me.

Unfortunately my father-in-law, husband, and son, are all incorrigible spring-roll addicts. Take this year for instance, as soon as winter was here, my son began to badger me: “Mama, I'm one year older, don't you think I can eat four spring-rolls this year?” my husband was more discreet. He only asked if he might help me carry the shopping basket. My father-in-law is a man of few words, and said nothing. But when the spring-rolls were served, his appetite doubled. I have no choice but to pick up the pieces and continue the family tradition.

I'm lucky I don't have a daughter.

I'm equally unlucky I don't have a daughter.