It was a familiar fragrant smell. As soon as I stepped into my Grandma’s house, I felt a sense of joy knowing that she had made zhong-zi. The process of making zhong-zi was a tedious but rewarding one, and Grandma was a master at it. Wash the bamboo leaves and soak overnight, prepare the glutinous rice, make the filling, carefully wrap the filling and secure it with string, then boil the zhong-zi for six hours. The whole process would take a couple of days. When Grandma made zhong-zi, her house would be too warm from the steam of the large pot of boiling zhong-zi. When Grandma made zhong-zi, it was often hotter inside her house than outside. The heat never bothered me. “Grandma, we’re here!” I’d call out as I took off my shoes. “You made us zhong-zi!” When I hugged her hello, her skin would be slightly damp from the steamy air. The smell of bamboo leaves, meat, and red bean piqued anticipation and salivation.
In our family, zhong-zi came in two flavor profiles: a savory one with deep brown rice and steamed pork and a sweet one with jade white rice hiding a dark purple red bean paste. We ate zhong-zi during the Duan Wu Festival, which falls on the fifth day of the fifth month of the lunar calendar. This meant that this festival frequently fell in the month of June, when the school year was about to end. As a kid, eating zhong-zi also meant that we were about to finish up the school year. The long-awaited summer vacation would arrive soon after. 1990s in Queens, New York. It was an exciting time of the year.
Each year, my mom would tell us the same story of why we ate zhong-zi during the festival. It didn’t matter that she told us the same story each year. We would happily listen in silence as we cut the strings of our zhong-zi and rolled out the sticky rice with our chopsticks. She would tell us the story while we ate, her own zhong-zi getting cold. For her, It was always more important to impart some Chinese history on us, even at the expense of waiting to dive into her own meal.
In the 3rd century B.C., during the Warring States Period of the Zhou Dynasty, there was a poet and minister of the Chu state named Qu Yuan. Not only was he smart and capable, he was also a deeply patriotic and trusted member of the Emperor’s court. His downfall was when he exclaimed that “Only I am capable of helping the Emperor achieve continued success…” His death sentence. A jealous peer reported this to the Emperor. The Emperor called Qu Yuan disloyal and sentenced him to exile. Eventually the Chu state was conquered by the opposing Yin state. Qu Yuan, still distressed by the Emperor’s accusations and saddened by his country’s defeat, wrote one last poem reiterating his loyalty to the Emperor and his country before committed suicide by jumping into the river.
Qu Yuan was beloved by the people, and they rowed boats to try to save him. When it was obvious that Qu Yuan was lost forever to the waters, they threw rice wrapped in bamboo leaves into the river so that the fish would eat the rice instead of Qu Yuan’s body. This is why we have dragon boat races and eat zhong-zi during Duan Wu Festival or more commonly known as The Dragon Boat Festival.
There are many versions of Qu Yuan’s story; history and folklore have melded together. There are also different versions of the origin of the Dragon Boat Festival, which likely began as ancestral or god worship. This is my family’s version. For Grandma, making zhong-zi was about family reunions and family meals. Her children and grandchildren would arrive, sometimes together and sometimes separately, to gather around the table each year for zhong-zi. Grandma would pack zhong-zi for us in freezer bags to be steamed at our leisure later in the week. She would pack several for friends and ask my mom to deliver them. And I would eat them while studying for finals, and then later for lunch or dinner at work, and sometimes three meals a day. I would introduce zhong-zi to my now-husband and tell him why this was such a special time of the year. Grandma would relish in the fact that she had another person to cook for. And my Mom would tell him the story that she’s told us for decades, but now in English with pauses to ask us how to say this or that, or if she’s using the correct word.
This is my family’s version of zhong-zi, or I should say Grandma’s version of zhong-zi that she has passed on to us. I have come to believe that it’s a story familiar to many families. It’s about being able to pick the last bit of sticky rice often intertwined with that last bit of red bean off the plate and lick it from your chopsticks. It’s about being surrounded by the familiar fragrant smell of bamboo leaves. It’s about the stories that Mom would tell, her opportunity to teach something old again. It’s about coming together, despite the busyness of life and work, and tasks and errands. It’s about memory and remembrance. It’s about measuring the passing of another year–June to June, summer to summer. It’s about that first moment when you step into your Grandma’s or loved one’s home, and you smell that familiar scent of cooking. After all, the story of zhong-zi and celebration of Duan Wu is a story about love. Centuries ago, it was about love for one’s country. Now, it’s about love for one’s family.