The following essay won an honorary mention in Documented’s 2025 bilingual essay contest for Chinese high schoolers in NYC. Students were asked to respond to the prompt: “a tradition I hope never goes away.”
阅读本文的中文版本: 每一口都是庆祝
It was cold outside on a late January evening. I could hear the faint sounds of beeping cars through my earmuffs as I rode the Q25 back home. Taking a bite of the bāozi in my hands, I waited through the harsh traffic on Parsons Boulevard. A Cantonese end-clipper tugged at me — nèi bāozi dǎ gǒu, yǒu qù wú huí — and I felt how even a thrown bun was gone for good, appetite and irony walking home together. The warmth of the takeout box heated up my freezing hands. It struck me that this whole traffic jam was just a city of people trying to get home for the New Year, a thought that stayed with me until the bus doors sighed open and I stepped out onto a street where the porch eaves wept soft, red lantern light. It meant family. It meant celebration. Home. Their glow stitched the block into one red seam — a reminder that the New Year was a season that ended in lantern light, not just a single night.
At last I arrived home at a quarter past 6. Walking through the door, I was met by the familiar faces of relatives that I haven’t seen since last year. Everybody was busy at work. Pans were sizzling, and the laughter of younger cousins occupied the room. My mother was at the stove. “Zhǔ shénme ne?” I asked curiously, looking over her shoulder. A whole steamed fish, the delicious, mouthwatering scent filling my nostrils. Eating fish was a tradition we had every year. Its name “鱼” (yú) sounds like “余,” meaning surplus or abundance. At our table, puns were a kind of grace — nián nián yǒu yú — surplus tucked inside the sound of fish, proof that character and sound braided themselves into daily life. My mom’s Dongbei showed up in the details: the whole fish steamed with scallions and ginger, a small dish of vinegar “so the year cuts clean,” and an upside-down fú taped to the fridge.
Lost in awe, I was awakened by the sudden order from my father, “Lái bāngwǒ bāo jiǎozi!” Every year, I rolled out the dumpling wrappers while my dad mixed the filling. He guided me through every process of creating the perfect dumpling. Filling just the right amount of filling, gently folding over the edges, and shaping it into a gold ingot. I’d watch the spring-afternoon movement of his fingers and try to teach my own the steps, and a warm, golden laugh would fill the kitchen air when he’d lift one of my funny, moon-cratered dumplings into the light. He always jokingly set it aside while saying the words “Zhège nǐ chī!
My dad’s Hebei touch was simple and stubborn: pork-and-chive filling heavy on white pepper and sesame oil, eight tight pleats for fā, and a house rule that the first broken dumpling is his. It took years for me to see that the real recipe he was giving me had little to do with dumplings and everything to do with who we were.
As cooking came to a close, it was finally time to start the feast. In the slow choreography of chopping and folding, our ‘leisure’ became cultivation — quietude and right action learned between stove and table. By 8 p.m., the table was covered with an array of traditional cuisines, placed on top of a crimson red tablecloth. Hearty flavors from my mother’s Dongbei background and savory flavors from my father’s Hebei roots were relished throughout every dish. All dishes on the table had meaning, each one a tradition serving a special significance.
Conversation filled the room as family members each took their seats around the table. My grandfather began by giving a toast. Everybody went silent listening attentively to his words of wisdom. Ending with a blessing for wealth and good health, everyone chanted “Gānbēi!”. Happiness was in the air as everyone ate to their heart’s content.
After we ate, the tradition continued with red envelopes (hóngbāo). My little sister’s anticipation for her red envelope yāsuìqián was written all over her fidgeting form as our aunts, uncles, and grandparents began to make their way around the table with the little packets. The feast was done. The next ritual began. They held out the red envelopes, a sign of fortune. I executed a sharp, polite bow for each one. I spoke the required words, “Xīnnián kuàilè, gōngxǐ fācái!” I secured them. One tradition was complete. As the red envelopes passed — money brief as breath, blessings deliberate — I understood why our words return to jiā and cái again and again: family and wealth, twin rails that keep the train from leaving the valley.
Later that night, when relatives started to leave, I sat near the window watching the night sky. The moon shone bright behind distant fireworks. The sky fizzed and popped with glorious flashes of red, gold, and silver. I watched with wide eyes, and a funny thought wriggled into my brain. Even though I was a child of America, these wonderfully old habits were a secret string tying me to my family across the sea. It was a marvelous truth that you could have two homes and love them both. Lunar New Year is not just about eating dumplings or getting envelopes; it’s a yearly dose of family magic.
