Celebrating the harvest moon,Grandma opened the Eastern Bakeryboxes. Inside, palm-sizedcakes, each in its own waxy bag,duck egg yolk in the centerwith its thin sheen of oil, glisteninglike a moon. I saved the yolkfor my last bite, letting the saltinesssurprise my mouth. The year I startedgrowing breasts, Sherilyn and I askedour mother for the recipe. Too much trouble,she answered. We’d made browniesfor the school bake sale so moon cakesshouldn’t be difficult—red bean paste,some pastry crust, pickled egg yolk.I bought a wooden moldfrom Ginn Wall Hardware and readWei-Chuan’s Chinese Cookingfor Beginners. We stuffed the cakesinto the round wells, flatteningthe tops with our knuckles. We whacked the mold againstthe back of a chair, hoping the woodwouldn’t crack and catching the cakeswhen they flew out. In the oven,all twenty exploded, yolks splittingtheir delicate skin. That year, I thoughtI might be dying from cancer, one nipple,a hard lump, growing out from my chest.When I screamed for my motherin the bathroom, she told me, Shut up!You’ll know later. From now on,don’t let anyone touch you.Does that mean I can’t play kickball?I didn’t know about training brasor anything until I read Are you there God?It’s me, Margaret. Now, I want to createmoon cakes for the next generation.This time, with fillings of Haagen-Dazsice cream or chocolate chip cheesecake.I’ve ordered fuchsia plastic moldsfrom Malaysia, but I haven’t figured outthe egg yolk. What could you substitutefor a bright round moon?
San Francisco Public Library, City Reflections.
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