My Dad’s Beef Noodle Soup

Savoring these, memories, translated…

In our house, the kitchen was a territory of my dad’s.

And the reason why, of course, it’s because my mother wasn’t a good cook, plus, my father failed in all of his business ventures, and, he’d, spent more time at home, and naturally, fixing the meals for the two of us kids, naturally, became his job.

cooking with a child…

It’s just, that I’d not agreed with some of my father’s “creative agencies”, for instance, he’d put yogurt into plastic bags, with the straws inside the bag, and make it look like the soymilk sold from the marketplaces, for me to take to school; the very first time I’d sipped into the bag, I’d almost, spitted it back out, thought, that this “soy milk” had, gone sour, otherwise, how can it taste sour. Or, he’d placed the cereal and the milk separately, into two bags, with a thick straw like for the bubble teas, hoped that I’d eaten this specially made breakfast, like I was drinking the bubble teas. And naturally, I’d still, finished that breakfast, separately.

Other than overly exercising his creativity in cooking, my father made tasty dishes, no doubt about that. The meat sauce, with the pork skins, drizzled all over the rice, adding a bit of white pepper to make it more aromatic, very salty and easy to swallow down, a bit, sticky too, to the point of professional cook (later on, I’d learned, that this came from one of his failed business ventures, that he’d sold the meat sauce over rice for three years long ago).

But, what impressed us all the most, was his beef noodle soup.

First, my father did not use the shanks, instead, huge portions of ribs. There are, fats around the ribs, with the sinews to the side, and after cooking thoroughly, the meat would, melt in our mouths, and the sinew, a bit chewy, but didn’t taste too oily. The beef needed to get soaked in running water to get rid of that stench, after broiling it, my father would, cut it into smaller pieces, a bit bigger than bite-size, because after stewing it, it’d shrunk in size.

what the noodle soup might look like!  Not my photo…

The soup had a ton of green onions, ginger, garlic, anise, and bean paste from Gangshan, he’d stir-fried all the ingredients together until it’s aromatic, then, from the side of the wok, he’d poured in soy sauce and rice wines, then, added a ton of water into the broiling wok, at which time, the kitchen is filled up with smoke, and the aroma of the stewed beef came out everywhere. During that time, the aromatic beef noodle soup flowed through the house, even into my bedroom, and took up a place on my pillow too.

Followed by the “long wait by the fiancée” of our taste buds, the rumbling beef that’s cooking for a very long time, is the to-be-wedded husband. And when I was little, I couldn’t beat out my hunger, as I’d passed through the kitchen at night, I’d stealthily, picked out a piece—hmmmmmmmmmm, it’s still a bit hard, needed more time in the cooking. Waited until the meat’s almost done, my older brother and I would ride our bicycles to the next door of the grocery shop, find that elderly retired veteran who’d sold those homemade noodles, and the handmade thick noodle that’s very chewy, with my dad’s specialty soup, with a little cabbage on the side, a ton of chopped up green onions, a bite of noodles, a sip of soup, we’d started, sweating, so savory, and we could’ve eaten the whole pot in one day.

Hmmmmmmmmmmm, a message from LINE came, “What, should we get dad on his birthday this year?” my older brother asked, “Dad said he wanted some beef, let’s buy some and cook with him, when are you coming home?”, after I’d checked my schedules, I’d chimed him back, “how ‘bout this weekend, I’d booked my train ride”.

Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmm, it’s, as if, all of a sudden, I’d smelled, that aromatic, haunting, stewed beef noodle soup again.

getting the family involved in making the meals together…

So, you have this specific memory of your father, making his specialty beef noodle soup for the family, probably because he had you participating in the process of cooking it, although you were too young, to take up the ladle, to check if the foods been cooked completely, it’s that sense of I’m a part of something that dad’s making, I’d helped out with the process of cooking that’s made this memory so savory, isn’t it???