My paternal grandmother was the lioness in our family. Fearlessly immigrating to the United States with her three youngest children from Hong Kong without speaking a word of English, she managed to navigate a new country, work as a seamstress, and send all of her kids to college. She had retired by the time I was born, so I simply knew of her as the grandmother who cooked dinner. Multi-coursed Chinese dinners every single night, at a large dining table where I squeezed in with uncles, aunts, and cousins.
And, without fail, my grandmother cooked a massive feast once a year to celebrate Chinese New Year. She steamed, braised, fried, and stir-fried until the table groaned with the offerings, and there was barely any room left for rice bowls and chopsticks. This meal was her pride and joy, and she always sat at the head of the table, happy to see three generations gathered together to have fun and feast.
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