As an addendum, I later learned that it’s tradition for the groom and his groomsmen to hand-deliver said pig to the bride’s family. When Jess and I went to Georgia to do some wedding planning a couple weekends ago, Mom found a barbecue place in Decatur and asked if I’d be willing to go pick it up. I’m all for upholding traditions, especially traditions that involve delicious swine, but I had to put my foot down when it involved spending an hour and a half in a car with a freshly-roasted dead animal.

Also, I’ve recently been reminded of how massive a Chinese wedding banquet can be. According to Dad, my parents had 50 tables at their reception, with 10 to a table. When I asked how they found time to eat, Mom emphatically said she didn’t.

“I had this nice piece of lobster in front of me,” she said. “Then they took us away to take pictures. When I got back, they had cleaned my friggin plate.”

I suppose this makes sense of a post-wedding tradition I’ve been told about, which requires a visit to your bride’s parents again with a few pounds of pork, symbolizing that you see their daughter as pure and chaste, and therefore accept her as your wife. Perhaps this is also goes a long way towards making up for the fact that neither one of you got to eat anything at your wedding.

Mom mentioned that it was also some sort of tradition for the mother of the groom to purchase the bride and groom’s new bedsheets, but didn’t know exactly why, so I’ve turned to Wikipedia to fill me in on anything else we might be missing:

Another ritual is the installation of the bridal bed (安床, ān chuáng). At an auspicious date and time, a woman of good fortune installs the bridal bed in the bridal room. New red or pink bedsheets are used and a plate of dried longans, lotus seeds, red dates, persimmons, sprig of pomegranate leaves together with 2 red packets are placed on the bed. A pair of bedside lamps (子孙登) is lit to symbolize the addition of sons to the family.

There’s also a specific kind of tea we’re supposed to serve/drink at our tea ceremony that promotes fertility. However, considering the fact that Jess had to convince me it would be OK if I splurged on a new pair of sneakers the other day to replace some old ones, I have a feeling that children won’t be in the budget any time soon.

All that to say, I won’t complain about the fact that weddings are serious business to Chinese families. If I were left to my own devices, I’d probably dress like a Power Ranger on my wedding day.

Now bring me some pork. Please?

I decided that, in addition to writing about my limited knowledge of Chinese food, I’d try my hand at writing about sports. Check out the new blog by clicking the link above!

That’s right, this guy is getting married (in October).

This past Christmas, I told my mom what my plans were, and she wanted to know a couple things:

1. Do you have any money? Because Dad doesn’t think so.
2. Would she be open to a tea ceremony?
3. Will she wear a cheongsam?

I’ll be the first to admit that I had to do a Google search to find out what a cheongsam is. And frankly, I still don’t understand much about it, outside of the fact that it’s an uncomfortable red dress made of silk. To Jess’ credit, she was a good sport about the whole thing, even after I sent her a picture of a cheongsam that was made out of cheap polyester and really was kind of gross.

Once we were actually engaged though, Mom kind of backed off her cheongsam request, but asked if we’d still be open to doing a tea ceremony. Again I had to turn to the Google machine to find out what that meant, and while 23-year old Rich would have said, “Absolutely not. We’re getting married in Georgia and that would be a logistical nightmare,” we wanted to do what we could to honor my parents as best as we could with this thing. In fact, Jess would remind me on a weekly basis that we had to talk to my Mom at some point about how she wanted to do a tea ceremony, which taught me two things about the person I’m going to marry this fall: 1) I am a very, very lucky guy and 2) she’s already a better child to my parents than I’ve ever been to them.

And while this all seemed well and good, I suppose I shouldn’t have been too surprised when Mom texted me to let me know that she had talked to my Aunt Jane about a tea ceremony, and that neither one of them thought it was a great idea, so we weren’t going to do it. Though I’m sure my parents just want me and Jess to be happy, part of me still wonders if they’re letting me off the hook because they think I might behave like this during anything traditional:

Either way, we’re really excited. Congratulations and champagne are still being accepted.

I have to admit that until recently, I’ve spent more time on the Upper West Side and the 7 train than I have in Chinatown. However, Jess was nice enough to bring me takeout from the only good Szechuan in Park Slope last night. I know you were all worried, but don’t be. There are still gallons of black bean sauce coursing through my veins.

I’m finding that it’s becoming more and more difficult for people I meet to understand how a guy who grew up in Chinatown could be so bad at ordering dinner. When I remind everyone that I was actually raised in Central New Jersey and spoke virtually no Chinese at home, the disappointment only deepens.

In fact, the only time I can remember having to use it around my parents was when my 2nd grade Sunday School class was charged with learning how to sing “Silent Night” for that year’s Christmas service in Mandarin. Or Cantonese. Or…please, you honestly expected me to remember? I can barely say “lo mein” without getting laughed at.

I’m not sure if we were singing Silent Night in this picture, but the fact that I was wearing a dinosaur sweatshirt and Zubaz pants, while the other boys were dressed in suits, should have been indicative of what my adulthood would be like. Anyway, Mom and Dad spent a good amount of time trying to help me memorize it phonetically, and as far as I remember, I was able to regurgitate it at least once before my friends’ parents started feeding me soda bread on a regular basis, which made me forget that I was Chinese at all for a while.

To this day, I casually bring this up during the holiday season, especially now that a lot of the people I see most often aren’t from around here (see: yelling about it at the top of my lungs in the middle of Central Park). When asked to sing it, though, it goes something like this:

Ping on yeah, sing see yeah,

Mon on…merrrrrp. Crap. I have to text Dad for the rest of it.

From there, I usually just fess up about a lot of other things: that I can’t eat with chopsticks, that I’ve never dated a Chinese girl, that I nearly failed high school pre-calculus. I suppose it’s a result of working in sales for so long. I’m just used to under-promising and trying to over-deliver, a common theme of this blog that all 8 of you who read this should probably get used to.

On a completely unrelated note, I had dinner with the West-Coast-Moys a couple weeks ago, and it was excellent. I’m still picking fish bones out from between my teeth.

If I’m fortunate enough to be as good looking as these three for the rest of my life, I don’t have a lot to complain about, do I? That’s all I have to say about that (free ramen for anyone who gets the reference).

That guy is ready to party, and after our walk down the aisle today, I think you’ll be ready as well.

1st course: Cold-cut appetizer served with a large side of optimism

The couple is now happily married, you’ve awkwardly said hello to a few aunts and uncles, and if you’re lucky, you’ve had a chance to pound a Tsingtao or two. You also haven’t eaten anything since breakfast, assuming you even had a chance to do that. You’re seated at a table with anywhere between 10-15 other guests, where you’re served a plate of cold cuts and shredded jellyfish. Nothing too overwhelming, so you’re feeling pretty good about the night ahead.

2nd course: Sharkfin soup with a side of guilt and a call from PETA

You’re still hungry, but you think to yourself, “Is this really that necessary? I mean, have we not seen that Gordon Ramsay documentary?” You eat around what you think could be the sharkfin, finish off your younger sister’s bowls, and are then reminded that this restaurant doesn’t serve actual sharkfin.

3rd course: Mayonaise shrimp in a bird’s nest, served on a bed of sufficiency

You should be feeling pretty full by now, but regardless, it might be a good idea to grab another Tsingtao. After all, you’re dressed up and the neon lights above your head aren’t giving out anytime soon, so you’ll need to cool off somehow.

4th course: Whole chicken, deep fried and soaked in self-loathing

“No, thank you. I’m full. I’ve had quite a bit of…what are you doing? Get that off my plate! Oh, I guess I’ll eat it. I’m not THAT full. And that beer was kind of light anyway, so it’ll be fine.”

5th course: Cantonese lobster with black bean sauce and MSG sweats

“Oh my God, lobster! I LOVE lobster! Why is it so hot in here? Shoot, I got black bean sauce on my pants. Whatever, I’ll eat it later.”

6th course: Steamed fish served with warm memories of your grandmother

If your childhood was anything like mine, your grandmother would often throw an entire sea bass into the wok on Sunday afternoons and steam it to perfection for dinner. So even though you’re wondering if the feeling of that much food in your stomach is akin to being pregnant, you trek on and remember grandma with each bite of that fish.

7th course: Memory lapse fried rice

Even though you couldn’t fathom eating another bite, this course is good luck for some reason. Your mother will stare you down from across the banquet hall until you take at least two bowls of fried rice. If you’re going to text your girlfriend to whine about how full you are, don’t expect any sympathy, as she’ll probably tell you that she wishes she could be eating so well in that moment.

8th course: Pre-dancing lo mein

“YOU’RE KIDDING, WE JUST HAD FRIED RICE. I HAVE TO GO TO THE BATHROOM SO BAD, BUT THEN EVERYONE WILL KNOW I HAVE A WEAK BLADDER. DON’T LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT. I AM NOT DANCING TO CHRIS BROWN RIGHT NOW. GET YOUR FILTHY PAWS OFF OF ME. I’M MOVING TO CANADA. CAN I HAVE ANOTHER TSINGTAO??”

9th course: Red bean soup

Skip this. It’s gross, and there’s a good chance you’ve had a bout or two with your stomach in the bathroom at this point anyway. Then politely wipe your mouth, wash your face, and thank the couple for having you because, after all, you did have a really great time and are extremely happy for them.

I have to admit that I haven’t really even been to Chinatown in a few weeks, which I’m sure you’re all disappointed to hear. Speaking of disappointments, though, I’ve experienced a few of my own at the hands of Chinese food, and I’m going to do just as any good 3rd gen Chinese-American should: I’m going to share them in list form on the Internet.

1) Martin Yan’s accent is NOT real

If you grew up without cable TV like my sisters and I did, you probably know him from his painfully endearing PBS show, Yan Can Cook. I loved how confident he was with his knives when he chopped vegetables and hacked chickens into perfect pieces. But when I was a teenager, my aunt (an actual aunt), after hearing about it at a work event, broke the news to the family over Thanksgiving dinner that his accent was about as real as Joan Rivers’ face. I sunk into a deep, deep depression upon hearing this news. So, here’s to you and all of your lies, Martin Yan. Way to ruin my junior year of high school.

2) What Dad called “conch” was actually just turnip root

When I was a wee lad, I was led to believe that one of my favorite foods was called conch. Dad would pick slivers of them out of his lunches on Sunday afternoons and give them to me, and I loved it. However, with the advent of reality cooking shows, I learned a harsh reality: conch is actually an expensive snail that I have still not eaten. “Yeah, that stuff was just turnip root,” Dad said not long ago. “Who told you that stuff was conch anyway?”

3) Dim Sum is NOT a healthy breakfast

Before church on Sunday mornings, Mom would buy a buffet-sized order of dim sum for our family to share before service began. That’s just all I knew: Monday-Saturday meant cereal, Sunday meant siu mai. But during my freshman year of college, I suddenly had a hard time breathing as I walked through the Seaport and needed to sit down. “Probably all that crap you eat at church,” a friend joked. Curious, I decided to skip breakfast the following Sunday and sure enough, I felt much better the following week.

4) The animals hanging from butcher shop windows WERE ALIVE at some point

I think it’s fairly clear that I was (and perhaps still am) a naive child. It never dawned on me that the animals I mocked from window panes were slaughtered just so someone could roast them. During my senior year of high school, I read Fast Food Nation by Eric Schlosser and decided to give vegetarianism a whirl. My mother responded by cooking ribs every night for about two weeks. “Fine by me if you want to be a hippie, but you’re not stopping the rest of us,” she said.

5) Opening a Chinese takeout restaurant in New Jersey will not make you rich

Mom used to order from a place called Desiree Wok on Friday nights. Their chicken wings were surprisingly delicious, and it was always nice knowing that I could stuff my face before getting on a bus for a marching band competition. She started ordering from them more often, though, after having a conversation with the owner about how they knew they were losing money on the wings. With chicken being more expensive to buy at the supermarket and make on your own, Mom became a regular, and as a result, I got very, very fat.

Last week, I invited you all to send me pictures of your groceries, promising that I’d reward at least one of you by reimbursing you and sending gifts. The response, as you can probably guess, was not exactly overwhelming. In fact, I received just one submission:

Stefanie, the biggest proponent of this blog’s birth, sent this in last week. I was ready to hand her $15 and a case of my favorite instant ramen at our next small group, until she told me these groceries were actually purchased months ago. Therefore, she is disqualified with no option to appeal.

As for the $15, I will probably put it towards a new shirt to wear to a childhood friend’s wedding tomorrow. If you still think I was not actually prepared to pay a winner, chew on this:

I’ll leave it to Gene Wilder for one final rebuking. You should all be ashamed of yourselves. Now go upstairs and study, or you’ll never get accepted to Dartmouth.

Here are some ground rules:

1. No takeout. That would just be cheating, and is also kind of lame.
2. No window meats. If you’re not sure what I mean, check this out.
3. Frozen dinners from Trader Joe’s will not only be disqualified, they will also be made fun of ruthlessly on this blog.
4. If you’re not within striking distance of a Chinese supermarket, you’re probably out of luck.
5. These ground rules are subject to change between now and whenever I pick a winner.

Above: What turned out to be four portions of this cost me $10. Then I set my oven on fire and didn’t cook again for a while. Totally irrelevant in this case, though.

I’ll be accepting submissions through August 22nd. I’m fairly certain I haven’t used this much bolded text in any other post, so hopefully that makes it clear I’m pretty serious about this. If you have any questions, comments, concerns, or just want to complain about your boyfriend, feel free to email me at the above email address. As Gordon Ramsay says before each Masterchef challenge, your time starts now!

Recently, a few of you have asked if I’ve ever considered making my own soup dumplings, and my answer is that you should know better than to ask me something like that. There’s a pretty good chance I would set something on fire, possibly my entire apartment, which would make all the beautiful children of Park Slope say, “That’s probably for the best. He would have forgotten the sriracha anyway.”

Some of you might know this already, but I once set my oven on fire while trying to broil a piece of salmon. I used to cook fairly regularly, and my fallback meal was always a broiled piece of fish with some vegetables. That is, until on that fateful night two years ago, when I accidentally put the fish in the oven for 15 minutes instead of the required 6. As you can probably imagine, all hell broke loose.

Fortunately, my roommate was in London at the time, and I somehow managed to handle it correctly, even before the fire department showed up (If you’re unsure, just shut the oven off and close the door. Then call your parents and prepare to be called “dummy” for a few minutes). They went up expecting everything to be torched, only to come down laughing, burnt fish and tray in tow. One firefighter said, “Well, you’ll probably be ordering out tonight, but the good news is that your apartment is fine and Oregon is leading Auburn right now.”

Above:  Torched Atlantic salmon, prepared with a Mediterranean blend of spices from Whole Foods. Serve with Chinese takeout from around the corner. Season with spring rolls to taste.

After a quick visit from the EMT, I decided that it’d be best not to cook with an open flame anymore. Now I bake a lot of things, or order takeout, because I’m in my mid-twenties and usually only have to worry about feeding myself anyway.

As for the homemade soup dumplings, though, I’d be happy to try. If you’re willing to let me use (and potentially lose) your apartment, shoot me an email and I’ll be glad to arrange it.

Anyway, I received this picture in an email the other day, and I can honestly say I’ve never seen these before.

In fact, I still have a few questions about them, which you can feel free to answer by commenting or dropping me a note:

1. What are these things filled with? With my luck, they’re packed to the brim with a Haw Flake puree.
2. Where in NYC can I find them? The closest result on Yelp is in Arlington Heights, Illinois.
3. How on earth do you order them? I’m assuming that asking for “those funny looking pandas” won’t get the message across.
4. Will I be to compelled by how cute these things look to not eat them, or would I tear their ears off, just like I do with Teddy Grahams?

This list of questions is far clearer than my first go-round the other morning, which looked something like this:

I haven’t been this curious about a Chinese food since the time Dad nearly sent my sister to a Culture Day at school with a bag full of X-rated fortune cookies (fortunately for us, we discovered this the night before, thus avoiding disaster the next day). If you have any knowledge about these creepy looking panda buns, please drop it like a Polaroid picture, or whatever the kids are saying nowadays about dropping things.