The object I chose to describe is perishable within hours. The short shelf-life of my object, after it has been prepared and steamed, transcends my ancestor’s lifespan in which they created the recipe for 蒸釀豆腐. 蒸釀豆腐, pronounced zhēng niàng dòufu in pinyin, translates to steamed stuffed tofu. In my Chinese American household, the homemade Cantonese dish is a staple that combines the delicacies of tofu, shrimp, and fish.  

 
The small rectangular pieces of tofu each estimate to ¾ of an inch wide, ¾ of an inch high, and 1 ½ inches long. None of the pearly white pieces are identical in size, but each is cut from the same slab of soft tofu that originally totaled to a weight of 14 ounces. Each tofu is crowned with sprinkles of cornstarch with balled-up chunks of a pink, gray, and white mixture. These chunks are a dense mixture of shrimp and tilapia (fish) smashed over a painstaking twenty minutes. The fish and shrimp have been rinsed, peeled, dried, and finely chopped. A filling marinade of ¼ tsp of salt, ¼ tsp of sugar, 1 ½ tbsp of cornstarch, and 1 ½ tbsp water is the final component of softening the blend of seafood. The pre-steamed platter of tofu lies on a cold stainless steel metal plate, ideal for conducting heat. There is a slight excess liquid from the tofu packaging on the plate that pools underneath each nutrient-rich nugget. Excess cornstarch lightly powders the surface of the gray plate. While the stuffed tofu rests on the flat smooth surface of the plate, the raised rim is an integral property of a bowl that will contain and protect the dish from excess heat or potential spillage while steaming. 

After steaming the dish, the dipping sauce—containing ¼ tbsp of fish sauce, ¼ tbsp of oyster sauce, ¼ tsp of brown sugar, 4 tbsp of water, and ½ tsp of cornstarch—thickens over a low flame in a saucepan. The sweet fragrant smell of the savory sauce lingers throughout the kitchen air.  

Slightly tinted golden-yellow squares of tofu struggle to balance the weight of the homemade shrimp and fish paste. I needed several attempts to top each tofu, one by one, with the seafood paste. Still, despite the individualized attention while transferring the steamed stuffed tofu from the steaming plate to the serving platter, there are some minuscule triangular-sized fragments of tofu that broke off during the transition.  

 
After 8 minutes of steaming, perfectly well-done stuffed tofu now lies on a blue 10” flower-printed plate. Rich forest-green spring onions cut into ⅛ inch long pieces serve as a garnish. The tofu is drained of any excess liquid. Rough edges are smoothed into a succulent, rosy-pink latter of shrimp and tilapia.  

 
Chopsticks and a soup spoon carefully cradle the healthy delicacy, cupping the delicate slice of tofu topped with fish. Prior to eating, I lather the bottom of the stuffed tofu in a thick viscosity of the golden-brown dipping sauce. Raw sliced vivid-green scallions in the dipping sauce pack a tinge of spice with a rich earthy flavor. The luscious and tangy flavors of the oyster sauce melt harmoniously with the tofu in my mouth. The shrimp and tilapia bind together in a tender softness that has a uniquely elastic and chewy texture. My tastebuds welcome the fresh, clean, and mild hints of fish. Delectable ingredients that lack preservatives compose an easy-to-digest and scrumptious Cantonese cuisine. 

 
Cooking a savory comfort meal with my mother ignited a new passion project of learning about Chinese cooking techniques like “wok hay.” I want to continue capturing my family’s traditional Cantonese delicacies through handwriting many more sweet and savory recipes.