Natalie Tan's Book of Luck and Fortune

by Roselle Lim

  Teacher. I smiled and found I was no longer surprised to see his rare smile in return.

  The universe unfurled in such unpredictable ways. We all moved in a constant celestial dance. The song ends and the music and our partner may change, but in order to survive we must continue dancing. I would prevail, and I would succeed.

  “Qiao was an excellent chef with a long shadow. In order for you to succeed, you need to walk alongside her, not behind her. Cook from your heart.” He glanced at his watch. “I am afraid I must return to the restaurant. I have been gone far too long already. Come by and pick up the check next week. I’m confident that you will find a way to solve the problem with the neighbors.”

  I tipped my head. “Thank you, Lao Shi.”

  I didn’t know yet how to fix that issue, but I was hopeful that I would figure something out. Working out a solution was easier now that the problem had been identified.

  “No, thank you for the wonderful meal,” he said. “You have a gift, Ye Ying, and a vision that is your own. You need both to succeed.”

  * * *

  I migrated back upstairs to think about the missing pages. The mystery of what had happened to them was solved: Ma-ma had burned them out of spite. Though I was grateful for the insight, I still had a dilemma. Miss Yu had told me that the fate of the restaurant was tied to cooking from the recipe book. With Old Wu’s help, I could restore what had been lost, but with the book still damaged, I wouldn’t be able to prosper.

  The sounds of Meimei gnawing and chewing greeted me. “Meimei?” I called out. “What are you up to?”

  I checked the hallway and the bedrooms, but no cat. The sounds originated from the living room. Lowering myself to my hands and knees, I peeked under the couch and caught the furry criminal in the act. I reached out to see what she had in her mouth, inadvertently beginning a slobbery game of tug-of-war with the cat.

  Meimei sank her claws into me and I winced, annoyed. This wasn’t like her. After extricating the cat’s needle-like claws, I stretched out what I had managed to grab from her. It was a woven bracelet I’d bought in Boracay, a memento of my first vacation with Emilio. I gathered the edges and contemplated whether it could still be saved. As I separated the loose strands, a memory resurfaced of when I had seen this similar kind of damage.

  When I was little, while crossing the street, I’d dropped a cloth doll my mother had made for me. Part of it was run over by a passing vehicle, and one of its arms was torn off. When I came home crying, Ma-ma scooped me into her embrace and calmed me down with kisses and hugs. “Sometimes when something is broken, we can’t fix it. Instead, we can make it anew.” She made a new limb from a fresh piece of fabric, stuffed it with batting, and reattached it. The doll was made whole again. My recollection gave me an idea. What if I wrote down three of my own recipes and added them to Laolao’s book? What if I contributed something brand-new instead of trying to replicate what was already there?

  Would it work?

  The same blood flowed in my veins; theoretically, so did the same magic. Maybe adding new recipes of my own could heal the heart of my grandmother’s recipe book. This was an educated guess at best, but it was the only solution I had.

  My grandmother had created it.

  My mother had damaged it.

  I would restore it.

  I rushed to the book on the kitchen table and opened it to the section where the three pages were missing. I used a scalpel from Ma-ma’s utility drawer to cut away the ragged edges, leaving enough of a margin to attach my addition later.

  The instant I finished, an invisible wind stirred the pages, flipping them, releasing all of the aromas of the dishes in the air. I closed my eyes to drink in the unseen feast. When I opened them, the book had returned to its normal state, open to the place I had trimmed.

  Was this a sign I was on the right track?

  Three of my recipes. No, three of my best recipes.

  The tiniest speck of hope arose from the ashes of my failure. My grandmother had learned to stand on her own after crossing an ocean. My mother had raised me alone even while tormented by her lingering demons. I was a product of these strong women. Ma-ma’s final request to follow my dreams was within my reach.

  Would my idea work?

  Only one way to find out.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Sitting at the kitchen table with my grandmother’s book beside me, I wrote out the recipe I would cook for Celia on a piece of paper I’d found in Ma-ma’s stationery drawer. The parchment matched the pages in the book, so it must have belonged to Laolao at one point.

  I followed the format of Laolao’s recipes. I wrote down the ingredients and instructions before moving on to the final part of the recipe. What was my wish for this dish? I pulled out a notebook and revised the words until the note conveyed what I wanted.

  Writing the recipe was the easy part.

  I had to call and invite Celia over. What if she said no? She had been there for me when the fire happened, but that could have been out of duty or common decency. I hadn’t heard from her since.

  I shook my head, trying to dislodge all of my growing doubts. I dialed her number and waited.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Celia,” I said. “I need to talk to you. Can you drop by tonight at my place for dinner around seven?”

  “I . . .” The hesitation in her voice wounded me. I’d done this.

  “Please. Allow me the opportunity to apologize in person.”

  I heard a soft sigh. “All right. I’ll be over for dinner.”

  She was coming.

  Using a strong adhesive, I attached the recipe I had finished writing to the clean edge I had left in the book. By the time I completed the other two pages, it was five o’clock. The market was still open and the night young. I headed out to collect the ingredients I would need.

  Arroz Caldo

  (Natalie’s Recipe)

  Cooking oil

  Ginger

  Chicken wings and drumsticks

  Fish sauce

  Chicken broth

  Short grain rice

  Saffron threads

  Chopped green onions

  Add the cooking oil and crushed ginger in a stockpot. Once it is sizzling, add the chicken and the fish sauce. Stir-fry to avoid burning. When the chicken skin begins to brown, introduce the chicken broth and the rice to the pot.

  Bring to a boil for thirty minutes. Stir every two minutes to make sure the rice does not stick to the bottom of the pot.

  When the rice is cooked, add the saffron threads and stir.

  Serve with chopped green onions.

  Note:

  To bring comfort and warmth to those you love.

  I cooked this for Celia, a treasured friend. I wanted her to know how much I love her.

  This was a recipe I learned from my travels in the Philippines.

  Arroz caldo was comfort food, a Filipino-style congee. The dish was golden, warm, comforting—just like Celia herself.

  My note for her was simple—I wanted to show her that I valued her friendship and I was grateful for her presence in my life. There would be no more errant meddling or ill-conceived notions of what would bring her happiness.

  After I finished preparing it, I sprinkled on a garnish of minced green onions as the final touch. The confetti of green accented the yellow porridge. It wasn’t the fanciest dish, but its bold flavors sang on the tongue.

  I placed a round, raised lid over the small bowl to trap in the heat.

  From the moment I arrived after my mother died, Celia had welcomed me. I had never truly thanked her for everything she had done for me. I vowed to myself that this dish would be the first of many gestures I would make.

  She arrived a few minutes later, coming up the steps and through the door with the tentativeness of a wild fawn. I
had ruined the effortless intimacy we had once shared in our friendship. I had to fix this.

  “What did you cook?” Celia unloaded her satchel on the counter and headed for the empty seat I pulled out for her.

  “First, I want to apologize again for how I treated you. I was so wrong and I hope, in time, you can forgive me.” I took the seat across from her. “Before you eat, I want to tell you something.”

  She crooked an eyebrow. “Are you about to warn me that you’re going to perform some sort of strange experiment on me? Again?”

  “No,” I replied. “This isn’t a dish made with the intention of meddling. I don’t want to change you. I think you’re perfect the way you are.”

  Celia’s cheeks turned rosy pink.

  “This is me showing my appreciation for the friendship you have given me. I can’t thank you enough for your kindness and generosity in the wake of Ma-ma’s passing. You have been my kindred spirit, and I hope to earn that trust back. I’m hoping this dish will bring you a small measure of the happiness that you’ve given me.” I lifted the lid, revealing the steaming arroz caldo.

  Celia’s eyes widened. Her tortoiseshell glasses began to fog up from the steam, and her stainless-steel spoon blushed from the heat. She took a spoonful of the porridge, blowing on it to cool it off before taking a small bite.

  Two tendrils of steam rose from the bowl, traveling along her shoulders until they joined together at her back. Celia let out a sigh, a contented purring sound that vibrated the hovering line, changing it into a thick, glowing strand of yarn. The yarn multiplied, falling downward as if invisible knitting needles had purled and cast a materializing shimmering blanket. Each murmur from Celia extended the material until it fell to the floor. Once finished, it tightened around Celia’s body in a comforting embrace.

  “This makes me feel so warm inside,” she said in between bites. “It reminds me of snuggling under afghans on rainy days with my mother. I loved those moments.”

  As she finished the dish, the wispy covering dissolved into the air.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, wiping her mouth.

  “You’re very welcome.” It worked. I had done it! The best part was being able to make reparations to this person I had come to care about so deeply.

  “Why don’t you make some tea?” Celia asked. “We’re due for a chat.”

  I made my way to the cupboards and chose jasmine tea. I craved its light, floral scent and flavor, for I needed a sense of levity and normalcy. Celia got up from her seat and busied herself watering my mother’s orchids by the windowsill. It was clear she had been here often enough that she knew where the spray bottle was. I realized at that moment that the stack of magazines on the table were from Older Shen and the stocked fridge when I arrived, from his brother. The brand-new tin of jasmine tea in my hand was from Miss Yu. They were all here all the time, yet I had never seen it until now.

  “Didn’t you have your date with Daniel recently?” Celia asked, setting down the spray bottle.

  Daniel hadn’t responded to my apology text. I was afraid that I would never see him again.

  I dropped scoops of tea leaves into an empty pot. “I did and it went well, but after the fire . . . we fought. I’m pretty sure I screwed up any chance of being with him.” The kettle on the stove whistled. The high-pitched sound pierced the peaceful air in the apartment. I lifted the kettle off the stovetop and poured the steaming water into the teapot. I placed the pot and two earthenware cups on a wooden tray.

  Celia’s mauve lips opened while her hands moved to frame her hips. “Why would you do something so stupid?”

  I almost dropped the tray on the way to the coffee table. The cups clinked from the sudden movement.

  “He’s cute, decent, and you like him.” She huffed. “Need I remind you about the best part—he’s not married.”

  “With all of the neighbors’ problems blowing up around me and the fire gutting the restaurant, I thought I had nothing to stay for.” I poured the tea into two cups. The steam rolled off the rims. I glanced in Celia’s direction. She sank into her chair, cradling her cup.

  She narrowed her eyes at me.

  “I had a high body count already. I didn’t want to add to it,” I reasoned, then buckled under her glare. “Fine, I pushed him away so it would be easier to run. I’d even bought a plane ticket, but a wise friend stopped me. But before I can even think of Daniel, I need to focus on undoing the harm I did around here. Maybe opening the restaurant will show him I’m serious about staying and he’ll forgive my stupidity.”

  “It sounds to me like he is your match. When you talk about him, there’s so much hope in your voice, like you think this one is different from the others.”

  I sighed. The thought had crossed my mind. “What if he doesn’t forgive me? What if the only thing that kept him coming was the magic of the recipes I cooked for him?”

  “We both know it’s more than just the food.”

  “Well—”

  Celia held up her hand. “If you’re going to say that your laolao’s food is more powerful than love, I beg to differ. Her cooking was amazing, but to say it’s greater than love, even I have to disagree. Anyway, Daniel sees something wonderful in you and I see it, too, you know.”

  I lowered my eyes. “Even after the damage I’ve caused?”

  “Yes, and if you had left without saying a word . . .” She met my eyes. “I forgive you for what you’ve done. I missed you, my friend.”

  First she had given me kindness and now, forgiveness. I was very lucky to have Celia in my life.

  “Thank you. I should probably also confess that I was going to send you a message and leave you the cat.”

  She whacked me in the arm. “If you had done that, I’d have hunted you down and dragged you back here myself.”

  * * *

  I still had two more recipes to write. Celia agreed to accompany me to a late-night market across town. We returned to the apartment with four overstuffed bags of ingredients. Celia, ever the enabler, had pointed to everything in sight, shoving items into the shopping cart as if we were preparing for an apocalypse. I hadn’t the heart to dissuade her; as a result, I had to play a game of Tetris to fit everything into the fridge when we got back. I started to experiment in the kitchen as we chatted; Celia would be my taster as we figured out the best recipes to use.

  “Are these your notebooks from your school days on the table?” she asked.

  “Oh, those are my mother’s journals. I didn’t know she had them. I found them in her room; I’m going to read them all eventually,” I replied.

  “Miranda did like to write. I remember that her penmanship was beautiful. I guess reading them would kind of bring her back in a way.”

  Celia was right. There was a measure of comfort seeing Ma-ma’s words. I should make time to read more tonight after I finished cooking.

  “So once you decide what to cook for Fai Shen and the Chius,” she said, “have you figured out how you’ll get them to come here?”

  I stopped midchop. The garlic cloves on the cutting board almost rolled away from the abrupt motion. “I hadn’t thought about that part yet,” I replied.

  “The last I heard, Wayne and Anita weren’t talking. At all. You’ll need to contact both separately. It’ll be trickier to get Wayne out of the convenience store than to get ahold of Anita in between appointments.” Celia sipped her glass of cranberry juice. “Wayne did come out of the store that afternoon when he saw the fire truck. He was going to drop by, but I told him you were all right and that it wasn’t a good time. Maybe if you ask him to stop by tomorrow, asking for help with something, he’ll come?”

  “Celia, are you asking me to lie?”

  She rolled her eyes and snorted. “It’s for his own good. Those two need to sit down and talk instead of yelling over each other. Leave Anita to me. Tell me the time and
I’ll make sure she’s here. As for Fai, he’s cleared his schedule to entertain Melody Minnows. You’d think he was dating the woman. It’s a shame that he’s decided to sell. I’ll leave you his number.”

  “Thank you,” I murmured. “What would I do without you?”

  “Your life would be far more miserable,” she replied.

  “You’re right, it would be.”

  Celia and I made more plans that night. Once we had selected the meal for the Chius, she began to nod off, and I sent her home. I should have been exhausted after what had happened, but I was just awake enough to create the perfect dish for Older Shen.

  It was well past midnight, but I had my final recipe. All three were written and placed carefully into Laolao’s recipe book. With that done, I decided to read some of my mother’s journals before succumbing to sleep.

  Mother wanted to add a new item to the menu. She wasn’t satisfied with the current repertoire. I told her that her dishes were already famous. She insisted it wasn’t enough.

  I still laugh when I remember how she looked that day.

  She waved her wooden spoon like a saber, like some warrior woman of old.

  “You are only as good as your last creation. You need to grow and get better. Do you think my competitors are sleeping? They’re waiting to capitalize on my mistakes. To be the best, you have to be in a constant state of hunger.”

  “Always being hungry sounds like torture,” I said.

  “Anything worth having involves some measure of pain and work. Because of this, you treasure it more. Now eat your noodle soup before it gets cold.”

  I smiled and closed the book. I wished I had the chance to know Laolao. I would have learned so much from her.

  Outside my window, night descended on the city, with its lights obscuring the heavens.

  My dreams were fueled with stars that evening: swirling galaxies of wonder, radiant colors with no earthly names, the weightless sensation of traveling through universes with the task of collecting wayward comets and wispy nebulas, showing me the infinite possibilities of my fate.