Mantou (馒头)
I typically avoid hard foods. These mantou are under-fermented: as if someone has poked a white ball with a needle, leaving it pockmarked and deflated. Biting into it might be tough, without the softness I prefer, but I don’t want to try. This results from my inexperience—uncertain about the right amount of water to add. Sometimes the dough is too wet, other times too dry. I diligently study the recipe in hopes of mastering mantou-making, but the instructions are vague, calling for ‘an appropriate amount’ of water, ‘moderate’ kneading, and ‘modest’ fermentation. If I had enough experience and creativity, I should be able to adjust ingredients creatively, or so I hope. Yong finds it surprising that I gain so much insight from making mantou.
I guess I shouldn’t lose heart. People favor soft things. My face is round too. Just like baozi, Yong says as he kneads my face when I stare at the mantou, my cheeks deforming under his hands. I’ll throw away these mantou, I tell him, and he lets go. I want to start over and note the reasons for this failure. Yong says I hesitate if the instructions are vague, although I don’t think there’s anything wrong with wanting certainty. Rely on your instincts, he advises because he’s very instinctive.
Mantou-making relies on experience and intuition. Experts don’t need precise measurements; they rely on observation and adjustment to ensure delicious mantou. If they add too much water, they’ll add some flour to fix it. When I knead the dough, it becomes softer under my touch. I press the dough with my fingers, ‘if it has a slight elasticity and quick rebound, then the dough’s hardness is probably moderate.’ What exactly is ‘slight’? What speed is ‘quick’? I knead them while looking at the recipe, imagining massaging the soft cheek of a newborn baby. Just trust your feelings, Yong would say. He doesn’t have cooking experience and believes that experience accumulated through practice should develop intuition. It’s tough, I tell him. It takes long-term training.
I remove my wedding ring and trim my nails short, like smooth hills—it makes me feel hygienic, as if I can easily become a mantou master, capable of making soft mantou and handling emergencies (like the time my dough over-fermented, but I fixed it by kneading to release excess gas, thanks to a quick Baidu search). I do this only when making mantou because Yong mentions that short nails make my fingertips look shorter. I understand, and I enjoy nail polish, letting artists create unique designs, but considering that long nails might let dough enter crevices, trap bacteria and dirt, or accidentally damage the texture and shape during kneading, I don’t think keeping long nails is a wise choice. Anyway, I’m sure Yong prefers clean mantou over longer-looking fingers.
I wonder if I should take the easy way out and buy a dough mixer. It can swiftly prepare and knead the dough. As I browse dough mixers on my phone’s Taobao app, I come close to placing an order but ultimately clear my shopping cart. Making mantou is a traditional skill and cultural heritage passed down through generations. I prefer preserving these cultural traditions, relishing the process, and achieving a better texture. Yong, on the other hand, leans towards purchasing frozen mantou that can be steamed quickly. I tell him that frozen mantou contains food additives and preservatives and lacks the softness of fresh mantou, but he reassures me. This way, you won’t have to work so hard. I never find it burdensome. I dissolve yeast in warm water once more, combine it with flour, gradually add the right amount of water, form the dough into lumps by hand, and proceed with manual kneading.
After steaming the mantou, I slip my wedding ring back on, shed my apron, and change into a loose cotton nightgown. I moisturize my hands, which are as white and clean as smooth vermicelli. Yong stares at my cheeks. How did those bruises appear? he asks. My face feels taut, much like a mantou swelling and contracting in a steamer, but I smile. Are you really clueless? His fingers graze my face, and his warm breath caresses my skin. Then he pinches my cheek, grinning. Oh, you’re incredibly soft!
I take out a mantou from the steamer, a chubby, snow-white milk mantou, enveloped in steam. Gently, I blow on it to cool it down. I take a bite. It’s a triumph—it is spongy, reminiscent of cotton candy, and velvety soft. My teeth sink into the mantou, and its texture gradually unfolds, offering a silky, lightly elastic rebound. Every mouthful is a blend of comfort and satisfaction, akin to caressing a soft cloud.
Care to try? I ask Yong. He takes the mantou from me and I watch as he devours it, his lips moving, just as they do when he holds my ears, his unshaved chin brushing against my cheeks, smothering my face with kisses. His lips, having just parted from the softness of the mantou, now seek out mine. I love this, he murmurs against my lips, his eyes closing in a blissful sigh. It’s the taste of home, of us.
Huina Zheng, a Distinction M.A. in English Studies holder, works as a college essay coach. She’s also an editor at Bewildering Stories. Her stories have been published in Baltimore Review, Variant Literature, Midway Journal, and others. Her work has received nominations twice for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. She resides in Guangzhou, China with her husband and daughter.