每次女儿大学放假回来的时候我们家都要先吃一次火锅和烤肉让女儿解解馋，火锅是她最喜欢的中国菜。娃她妈妈的烤羊肉串也很不错，我特别喜欢，尤其是就上冰凉的啤酒和她拌的凉菜。
女儿去学校后，每次我们俩自个在家吃火锅的时候，就经常想起女儿高中毕业时写的一篇“火锅”的文章。光阴似箭，过往的美好时光总令人深深地怀念。
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《火锅》
每周至少有一次，我看到云来超市的白色杂货袋散落在厨房的地板上，听到熟悉的肉类切片机的轰鸣声。几分钟后，我和父母坐在餐桌前，迎接我的是满满一盘预先切好的土豆，新鲜的青菜和甜冬瓜。除此之外，还有几碗生羊肉，生拉面和撒上芫荽的芝麻油小碗调料。当美味的奶油鸡汤香味飘到我的嘴边，我用筷子把原料一一放进汤里时，我咧嘴笑了。
“火锅”是我最喜欢吃的食物之一，它是在一个小烤架上放一个粘土锅。星期六晚上，我的家人聚集在火锅旁，轮流添加自己最喜欢的配料——爸爸的土豆片、妈妈的虾和我的虾球——然后坐下来等待烧煮好的食物出锅。如果那天我特别饿的话，等待的过程是漫长的，但这绝不是无聊的。把作业放在一边，我和家人聊天。话题虽然开始时千差万别，但最后的对话往往会导向我们的中国文化。我爸爸经常以他对中国古代历史的迷恋和对李白作品的热情开始这些讨论。我们谈论一切，从批评中国过度使用审查制度，到盛唐为什么最终垮台，或者为什么红色如此流行，等等。当食物在锅中沸腾时，我们都很快地奔向锅里，从水中升起的水蒸气模糊了我们的视线，筷子相互碰撞在一起。吃完辣拉面和伊诺基蘑菇后，我们只需再加一些，这个过程又开始了。
我的许多星期六晚上都是和我父母一起在我舒适的家这样度过的。在这些夜晚，聚集在一个火锅的热汤周围，我的宇宙被简化了，面前只有温暖的饭菜，和父母坚定不移的陪伴。在这些宁静的夜晚，笼罩着我的世界的光芒是渺小而舒适的，但这种温暖在更高的层次上向我辐射，渗透到更古老的仪式和更深层次的文化渊源中。
作为一个有规律的美国人，当我和家人一起吃火锅的时候，我的思绪回到了数千里外的中国西安的家乡。我想起了许多年前的夏天我们回家探亲，我与家人和朋友在哪里一起度过的一个完全不同的星期六夜晚。 我想起那个宁静的夜晚， 那条童年公寓前柔和的黄灯所照亮的街道，知了知了欢快鸣叫声使得街道生机勃勃。我那里听到的故事比我在家里听到的故事有了很大的拓展。我坐在那里睁大了眼睛，祖母谈论着在文革中长大的故事，我问了一些好奇的问题，我的表亲们分享了他们在上学期间是如何回家的，下午又是如何午睡，然后才回来上夜班。当我意识到我的生活与他们的生活有多么不同时，我饥饿地吞噬着我听到的一切，感觉到它在我心中产生共鸣。然而，奇怪的是，我并不觉得与他们疏远，而是通过语言和习俗体验到一种无法打破的联系。通过一顿火锅，我们聊到深夜。街上充满了来自不同背景的人的活泼对话的声音，但归根结底，他们的根源是一样的。
今晚，当我把虾球浸在火锅热汤里的时候，我想起了我是谁，什么永远是我的一部分。
Hot Pot
At least once a week, I see the white grocery bags from Yun Lai scattered around the kitchen floor and hear the familiar roar of the meat slicer. Just a couple of minutes later, I sit in front of the dining room table with my parents, where I am greeted with full plates of pre-cut potatoes, fresh green bok choi, and sweet winter melon. Beside these are bowls of raw lamb, uncooked ramen noodles, and sesame butter sprinkled with coriander. My mouth waters at the delicious waft of the creamy chicken broth, and as my chopsticks move the raw ingredients into the soup, I grin.
"Hot pot" is one of my favorite meals, consisting of a clay pot on top of a small grill. My family gathers around the simmering soup on Saturday nights. We take turns adding our favorite ingredients—thin potato slices for my dad, shrimp for my mom, and shrimp balls for me—before sitting back and waiting for the concoction to cook. The waiting process is long if I am especially hungry that day, but it is never boring. Setting aside my homework assignments, my family and I talk. Topics vary, but more often than not, our conversations lead to our Chinese culture. My dad often begins these discussions, with his fascination for ancient Chinese history and passion for poet Li Bai’s works. We talk about everything, ranging from criticisms of China’s excessive use of censors to why the prosperous Tang dynasty eventually fell, or just why the color red is so popular. When the food boils, we all quickly dive into the pot, chopsticks clashing as the steam rising from the water clouds our vision. After devouring spicy ramen and enoki mushrooms, we simply add more, and the process begins again.
Many of my Saturday nights are spent this way, in the comfort of my house with my parents. During these nights, gathered around the single pot of boiling soup, my universe is simplified, consisting only of the warm meal before me, matched by the steadfast company of my parents. The glow that encases my world is small and cozy on these quiet evenings, but the warmth radiates for me at a greater level, into older rituals and deeper cultural origins.
As American as I feel on a regular basis, when I eat hot pot with my family, I am transported thousands of miles back to my hometown in Xi’an, China. I am reminded of peaceful Saturday nights in a completely different way—with my family and friends the summer I visited, many years ago. I think of the cheerful street in front of my childhood apartment, illuminated with soft yellow lamps and alive with the chirping of cicadas. The stories I hear are greatly expanded from the ones I have heard at home. I sit wide-eyed as my grandmother talks about growing up amid the Cultural Revolution and ask curious questions as my second cousins share how during their school day, they go home during the afternoon and nap before coming back for night studies. Everything I hear I devour hungrily, feeling it resonate in me as I realize just how different my life is compared to theirs. However, strangely, I don’t feel distanced from them, but instead experience a connection, through language and custom, which cannot be broken. Through a single meal of hot pot, we talk into the night as the street is filled with the sounds of lively conversations from people with different upbringings but, ultimately, the same roots.
And today, while dipping shrimp balls into the simmering soup, I am reminded of who I am and what will always be a part of me.
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