Free Hot, Sour, Salty, Sweet by Sherri L. Smith Page B

to help make it.”
    “Well, what did she want?”
    “She can tell you later. Now you are washing your hands and making dumplings,” Nai Nai says. “Then you can call your friend.”
    Nai Nai turns her attention to Ana's dad. “That Chelsea says her father is an engineer. A mechanical engineer. They make good money, very smart.” She narrows her eyes at Ana's dad across the kitchen counter. “Such a shame. You should have stayed a structural engineer.”
    “Love you too, Mom,” Ana's dad says.
    “Love nothing. Love doesn't feed the family. Love only gets in the way.”
    Ana stops washing her hands long enough to look at her grandmother. “Nai Nai, why do you say things like that? You love Ye Ye.”
    “That's different. I'm smarter than both of you. I know how to fall in love with the right kind of man.”
    At the table, Grandma White harrumphs. Ana cuts her a warning look.
    “I would ask what that's supposed to mean, but it's not worth it,” Ana's dad says. “Here are your radish roses and your carrot flowers. Garnish away. I'm going to spend time with my wife. Whom I love. Very much.” He winks at Grandma White, who smiles back, and he grabs a couple of drumsticks from Grandpa White's platter on the way out.
    Ana turns to Grandma White. “Grandma, can you move your glass? I need the table for the dumplings.”
    “Sure, baby.” Grandma White picks up her glass and folds her arms, watching over her gumbo like a pit bull. Ana's just glad there's no fighting going on. She wipes the table clean and spreads a couple of sheets of parchment paper on the table, Nai Nai's words ringing in her ears.
    She can't help wondering if Jamie is the “right kind of man” for her, whatever that means. Nai Nai wouldn't think so, of course. Jamie is Japanese. For all Ana knows, he might be a direct descendant of the soldiers who burned those crops in China. He may as well have forced the moldy corn down Ye Ye's throat himself, as far as Nai Nai's probably concerned.
    “Ana, don't forget your mother's cake this time. And don't touch the lion's head,” Nai Nai says to Ana, looking at Grandma White. Nai Nai's eyes narrow slightly. “Just let it cook.”
    “Okay,” Ana says, uncovering the bowl of dumpling dough.
    “Okay.” Nai Nai nods and pats Ana on the cheek. “You are such a good girl. We are so proud of you, aren't we, Mrs. White?”
    Before Grandma White can answer, Nai Nai straightens her immaculate suit jacket and is gone.
    “Thank goodness she's gone. We could all use some peace and quiet.”
    Ana moves around the table and kisses Grandma White's cheek. She can still smell the faint scent of onions and celery on her grandmother's skin.
    “I'm sorry about Nai Nai. She can be so difficult sometimes.”
    “All the time,” Grandma White says. “But that's not your fault, so don't apologize. We've been having our trouble since before you were born.”
    “I know.” Ana sighs. “You'd just think it would be different after fifteen years.” She ties her apron back on and gets the bowl of pork filling from the refrigerator.
    Grandma White chuckles. “You'd think. But that's not the way things work. Shoot, you've got to realize there's a problem before you think about fixing it. And you have to know what the problem is. If it's just black versus Chinese, that's one thing, a thing that won't change. But there's something else about that woman. You know, she's never, ever called me by my first name? Always ‘Mrs. White, Mrs. White, Mrs. White.’ She likes your grandfather well enough, though.”
    “Yeah, I don't know what that's all about,” Ana admits. “Dad says it's because she has a hard time saying
Olivia.
Maybe she's embarrassed?”
    Grandma White stands up and goes to check on her gumbo pot. “Well, I guess I should be grateful that she calls me anything at all. When we first met, it was like we weren't even at the same table. Like she'd frozen over solid or something. Now, Derby says it's my