XI MI LU
While most kids rely on lemonade or fruit punch to quench their thirst in the dry, summer heat, my brother, Dennis, and I live off of xi mi lu. Sometimes we’d have it up to three times a day and even substitute breakfast with it. The dirty dishes would pile up twice as fast during these hot months because we’d fill up a new bowl every time we couldn’t resist our craving any longer. We both dreaded being the one to open the fridge door and find the metal pot the delicious dessert was made and stored in gone. Each new pot of xi mi lu provoked a silent war between the Peng siblings as we’d each try to eat as much of it as we could without seeming greedy before it was empty again. As passive as our battles usually were, our intense love and hunger for xi mi lu eventually forced us to duke it out over this treasure.
Since my diaper days, Dennis and I have always been rivals. We’ve fought about every trivial problem there is to argue over, from who gets to shower first to who gets to sit shotgun in the car, but we were surprisingly civil about sharing xi mi lu. An unspoken agreement was established the moment our father brought home our first taste of this popular Asian dessert from the restaurant he worked for. We were considerate enough to allow the other to have some, but never a teardrop more than their fair share. Each potful would last us only three days and then we’d pester our mother to make another one. We’d already had at least eight pots of xi mi lu by the end of July and we were still no where near satisfied. Tensions flared as we approached the last spoonfuls and finally, our fourteen-year feud culminated in a catastrophic-turned-enjoyable event.
I entered the kitchen to find the familiar metal pot on the kitchen counter with the lid on its side. Naturally I peeked inside and I was thrilled to see there was just enough left to fill up a small soup bowl. As I reached for a bowl feed my addiction, I considered my dilemma. Dennis had probably taken the xi mi lu out with the intention of finishing the pot, but then most likely got distracted by a winning touchdown on TV or suddenly needed to go to the bathroom. He technically called shots on the last bit of xi mi lu, but I was still angry that he had taken way more than his 50% share from the last pot, leaving me without xi mi lu for days. I took my chances and scooped up the remainder into a ceramic bowl decorated with Chinese characters. I grabbed a spoon from the cutlery drawer and I was just about to eat my third spoonful when Dennis burst into the kitchen, startling me so much I almost dropped the bowl, and yelled, “Are you joking?!” He grabbed for the xi mi lu, but I swung it away from him, sloshing the tapioca pearls and watermelon all over the floor. He grabbed for it again, this time catching the very edge of the bowl with his fingertips. He jerked his arm back, and the coconut milk dripping down the side of the bowl caused the bowl to slip through both our hands and smash onto the floor. We stared at the tiny clear pearls and squashed watermelon bits in horror and simultaneously, we started shoving each other, slipping and sliding in the xi mi lu that belonged in one of our stomachs. We fell against the sink, hit our knees against the stove, and bruised our butts on the linoleum floor. The pain and anger continued to escalate until our mother finally entered and ordered us to clean up the mess.
Our mother was so exasperated by our constant pointless antics that she told us she didn’t want to make any more xi mi lu; if we wanted any, we’d have to make it ourselves. Dennis and I finally looked at each other and shared a look that said, “Cook for ourselves?!” Neither my brother nor I possessed even the tiniest bit of culinary skill. What were we going to do without xi mi lu that’s always fresh and ready to be eaten? Our mother recommended we learn how to make the dessert now; like all traditions, xi mi lu and its significance need to be embraced and carried on as our parents and elders will not always be there to keep them alive. She compiled a grocery list and sent us both to the Asian supermarket and when we finally got there, after walking on opposite sides of the boulevard for thirty minutes, we searched for the essential ingredients for at least an hour because we didn’t recognize any of the Chinese labels. But we eventually arrived home with tapioca pearls, coconut milk, and a watermelon and started the long process of making xi mi lu.
We poured half the bag of white tapioca pearls, about four ounces, into a huge metal pot and boiled them for five minutes, after which we’d immediately add ten teaspoons of sugar and lower the gas to let the pearls cook for another twenty minutes until they became clear, stirring the mixture the entire time to prevent the pearls from sticking. It was tempting to add the can of coconut milk to the pearls right away, but our mother reminded us patience was the key to this food. We have to let the pearls cool for at least an hour before adding the milk. While we waited, we chopped up half a watermelon into medium-sized cubes. Dennis and I preferred watermelon, but cantaloupe, honeydew, or mango could also be substituted. We added the coconut milk and fruit into the cooled mixture and placed the pot in the fridge to be chilled for another two hours. Dennis and I realized it didn’t take as much skill to create this tasty dessert as we thought it would; all xi mi lu required was patience and our mother taught us that by keeping us busy with funny family stories and directions for other recipes. When the xi mi lu was finally ready after hours of preparation, Dennis and I swore it was the best xi mi lu we had ever tasted. Perhaps it was the personal effort that was mixed into the food or the lack of animosity that existed between Dennis and I as we worked together for once. It was an experience that didn’t necessarily mend my relationship with my brother, but at least bonded us briefly and proved civility was possible. We had four bowls of xi mi lu each that day and we realized we’d never get sick of this special dish. The wait would always be worth it and with the recipe now embedded in our minds, we can make it whenever and wherever we want.
After finally learning the recipe of my favorite food, experiencing xi mi lu is no longer confined to the Peng household. I used to only eat it in my own house or in other Asian households because I was afraid others, especially non-Asians, would judge the food and think it looked weird or make fun of it, but my shared cooking experience with my brother taught me it is significant to my family and our story, and just like all cultures, it must be preserved. To me, xi mi lu represents a tradition that defines me both as an Asian and as an Asian American, connecting me to a history and family that I’ve lost touch with growing up surrounded by American culture and integrating an ethnic food I cherish into my American lifestyle at the same time. The personal meaning xi mi lu holds motivates me to share this tradition with others and to continue learning about and embracing all aspects of my culture.
Since my diaper days, Dennis and I have always been rivals. We’ve fought about every trivial problem there is to argue over, from who gets to shower first to who gets to sit shotgun in the car, but we were surprisingly civil about sharing xi mi lu. An unspoken agreement was established the moment our father brought home our first taste of this popular Asian dessert from the restaurant he worked for. We were considerate enough to allow the other to have some, but never a teardrop more than their fair share. Each potful would last us only three days and then we’d pester our mother to make another one. We’d already had at least eight pots of xi mi lu by the end of July and we were still no where near satisfied. Tensions flared as we approached the last spoonfuls and finally, our fourteen-year feud culminated in a catastrophic-turned-enjoyable event.
I entered the kitchen to find the familiar metal pot on the kitchen counter with the lid on its side. Naturally I peeked inside and I was thrilled to see there was just enough left to fill up a small soup bowl. As I reached for a bowl feed my addiction, I considered my dilemma. Dennis had probably taken the xi mi lu out with the intention of finishing the pot, but then most likely got distracted by a winning touchdown on TV or suddenly needed to go to the bathroom. He technically called shots on the last bit of xi mi lu, but I was still angry that he had taken way more than his 50% share from the last pot, leaving me without xi mi lu for days. I took my chances and scooped up the remainder into a ceramic bowl decorated with Chinese characters. I grabbed a spoon from the cutlery drawer and I was just about to eat my third spoonful when Dennis burst into the kitchen, startling me so much I almost dropped the bowl, and yelled, “Are you joking?!” He grabbed for the xi mi lu, but I swung it away from him, sloshing the tapioca pearls and watermelon all over the floor. He grabbed for it again, this time catching the very edge of the bowl with his fingertips. He jerked his arm back, and the coconut milk dripping down the side of the bowl caused the bowl to slip through both our hands and smash onto the floor. We stared at the tiny clear pearls and squashed watermelon bits in horror and simultaneously, we started shoving each other, slipping and sliding in the xi mi lu that belonged in one of our stomachs. We fell against the sink, hit our knees against the stove, and bruised our butts on the linoleum floor. The pain and anger continued to escalate until our mother finally entered and ordered us to clean up the mess.
Our mother was so exasperated by our constant pointless antics that she told us she didn’t want to make any more xi mi lu; if we wanted any, we’d have to make it ourselves. Dennis and I finally looked at each other and shared a look that said, “Cook for ourselves?!” Neither my brother nor I possessed even the tiniest bit of culinary skill. What were we going to do without xi mi lu that’s always fresh and ready to be eaten? Our mother recommended we learn how to make the dessert now; like all traditions, xi mi lu and its significance need to be embraced and carried on as our parents and elders will not always be there to keep them alive. She compiled a grocery list and sent us both to the Asian supermarket and when we finally got there, after walking on opposite sides of the boulevard for thirty minutes, we searched for the essential ingredients for at least an hour because we didn’t recognize any of the Chinese labels. But we eventually arrived home with tapioca pearls, coconut milk, and a watermelon and started the long process of making xi mi lu.
We poured half the bag of white tapioca pearls, about four ounces, into a huge metal pot and boiled them for five minutes, after which we’d immediately add ten teaspoons of sugar and lower the gas to let the pearls cook for another twenty minutes until they became clear, stirring the mixture the entire time to prevent the pearls from sticking. It was tempting to add the can of coconut milk to the pearls right away, but our mother reminded us patience was the key to this food. We have to let the pearls cool for at least an hour before adding the milk. While we waited, we chopped up half a watermelon into medium-sized cubes. Dennis and I preferred watermelon, but cantaloupe, honeydew, or mango could also be substituted. We added the coconut milk and fruit into the cooled mixture and placed the pot in the fridge to be chilled for another two hours. Dennis and I realized it didn’t take as much skill to create this tasty dessert as we thought it would; all xi mi lu required was patience and our mother taught us that by keeping us busy with funny family stories and directions for other recipes. When the xi mi lu was finally ready after hours of preparation, Dennis and I swore it was the best xi mi lu we had ever tasted. Perhaps it was the personal effort that was mixed into the food or the lack of animosity that existed between Dennis and I as we worked together for once. It was an experience that didn’t necessarily mend my relationship with my brother, but at least bonded us briefly and proved civility was possible. We had four bowls of xi mi lu each that day and we realized we’d never get sick of this special dish. The wait would always be worth it and with the recipe now embedded in our minds, we can make it whenever and wherever we want.
After finally learning the recipe of my favorite food, experiencing xi mi lu is no longer confined to the Peng household. I used to only eat it in my own house or in other Asian households because I was afraid others, especially non-Asians, would judge the food and think it looked weird or make fun of it, but my shared cooking experience with my brother taught me it is significant to my family and our story, and just like all cultures, it must be preserved. To me, xi mi lu represents a tradition that defines me both as an Asian and as an Asian American, connecting me to a history and family that I’ve lost touch with growing up surrounded by American culture and integrating an ethnic food I cherish into my American lifestyle at the same time. The personal meaning xi mi lu holds motivates me to share this tradition with others and to continue learning about and embracing all aspects of my culture.