Way to live

My Auntie Margaret–my Di-um, or Second Aunt-in-law–turned 95 last week. She refused to celebrate this milestone, unlike five years ago when there was a splendid celebration, with bouquets of 90 red roses and all four generations of her family and friends gathered–and she knew each one by name, rank and serial number! Even my groovy 7th Aunt violated her self-imposed rule not to cross the Pacific and flew over from Vancouver for the party (she seems to have since re-imposed the rule).

At 95 Auntie Mop (that’s what most folks call her) has cut back on her social calendar. She now plays bridge only once a week (she still wins) and mahjong twice a week. Her lunch and dinner groups no longer meet regularly, but I suspect that’s because most of them are either indisposed or have passed on. So she checks out the newest restaurants in town with her grandchildren and great-grandchilren–and she gives me the thumbs-up or-down on restaurants and the dishes they serve (her assessments are more reliable than many of the food reviewers around).

I used to tease that she had more dates than I did, and she’d shh me and say I was ruining her reputation. But it’s true–I used to have to call several times before catching her at home (of course she does not believe in cell phones).

She is a treasure trove of family history and secrets, and the best source for chismis. She’d tell me about the old house in Gulangyu island just off the coast of Fujian province, who slept in which room and who’d sneak off where, about the longan tree just outside the window so you simply reach your arm out for the sweetest fruits (as of my last visit two years ago the tree was still there, but I don’t know about the fruits). I must interview her for the family history I am supposed to but have not yet managed to write.

And I must get her to teach me the family cooking secrets. She said that as a young bride she’d "volunteer" to help my Grandma in the kitchen, in the process learning the secrets of the hearth and the wok. Up until about two years ago she still cooked for us, and we would beg, cajole, pout–whatever it took–so she would have us over for what invariably was a feast. I’m sure she could still command a mean wok, but at 95 we’re not going to impose. Now she wants to sample my cooking, but I know better than to agree to let her–she may not have much of an appetite, but her taste buds are as sharp as ever. Maybe when she turns 100 I’ll cook for her–which means I have five years to practise.