Orchids, white rice and $20 bills

Remembering my Yen Yen, who died 8 years ago on Halloween, and bits of my experience growing up with a Chinese grandma. 

A photo of Yen Yen in San Francisco probably well before I was born.

"Neh." Here, take it she would say. Referring to bowls of peeled fruit, or a box of cookies, or maybe it was a bag of sweet potatoes to bring home. Yen Yen - paternal grandmother in Toisanese- always plied us with food. Visits to her San Francisco Chinatown apartment usually involved eating and walking down the hill to push our way in to the overflowing produce stores on Stockton street or a butcher shop on Broadway, where I, a lifelong vegetarian, would hold my breath and look away. Till the end Yen Yen always offered me meat dishes, giving a sheepish smile when I said no thanks every single time. I still remember her trying to feed me the driest shreds of chicken as a  toddler. I cling to this memory as what cemented my permanent distaste of animal flesh. 

While the language barrier was strong, we found common ground on fruit. Oranges, apples (always peeled), persimmons, tangerines, white peaches, melon. And white rice. All I ate at the many Chinese dinners of my childhood was a plate of white rice. I vaguely realized this was some kind of abomination, and neither of my sisters turned out like me, but maybe because I was half Chinese I got away with it. I just never wanted any of those glazed/soupy/fried meat dishes. Still don't....

Iconic style

Her apartment was always light-filled, perfect for the myriad orchids she kept. She had straight up bushes that were orchids. I've never seen that before or since. Orchids always remind me of her. I wish I had learned how she helped them thrive. Many an orchid has withered under my care over the years. I only finally kept one alive past it's store-bought bloom phase last year. 

Have you ever seen an orchid shrub?

We communicated with broken English conversations and loving touch. It never felt easy to "just talk". But we held hands, I massaged her shoulders, we walked side by side. 

In her last years we connected obliquely over jewelry. She was a diehard gold and jade woman. I was beginning my career in silversmithing. I would tell her about making jewelry and she would ask "You make money?" She was a business woman who owned sewing factories in San Francisco. She didn't own a purse that she hadn't altered by adding multiple inside zipper pockets or key rings. 

I made a ring for her, which she wore for quite a while. I was surprised and tickled by this as it wasn't her usual jade. 

As I'd leave her apartment, more often than not she'd slip me a folded $20 bill. She'd press it into my hand without a word, just a smile. I'd say the two Chinese phrases I know. "Doh jeh, thank you. Ngo oi kne. I love you." 

The two eras in which we had the same haircut :)

I love you Yen Yen. I miss you.  

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