All That Matters by Wayson Choy

the golden brew steamed majestically. Crystals of melon lay in a rich broth. The air smelled of crushed ginger. Everyone sighed with delight. Summer melon with chicken and sweet pork in chicken-feet stock was one of Poh-Poh’s specialties. Mrs. Chong had grown the prized melon in her backyard garden, and Mrs. Leong, the herbs. Mrs. Wong, the butcher’s mother, had contributed the pork bones; she made sure they were thick with meat.
    “People still eat,” she had said, “but they don’t buy so much any more. Stingy times.”
    To signal the beginning of the meal, Poh-Poh dipped her chopsticks down into the communal soup bowl and gracefully lifted away the largest pork bone. Thick, tender-cooked pork slid away and fell back into the fragrant broth. Everyone began to chatter, drifting into the deep comfort of their village dialects.
    “Perfect,” Mrs. Leong said in her Sam-yup manner. She reached over with her chopsticks and graciously took the bone from Poh-Poh to put onto the bone plate. “Everything perfect.”
    “Sik-la!”
Grandmother commanded. “Eat, eat, eat! Don’t stand on ceremony!”
    “You and your grandson,
dai yat!”
Mrs. Chong said. “Number One!”
    I suddenly felt proud that I belonged there with Poh-Poh—the Number One assistant to the culinary celebrity. Clicking chopsticks rose and fell, and the clink of porcelain spoons in the large bowl made a happy chorus. Grandmother picked up choice pieces of chicken and pork with her ivory chopsticks and generously put them into the rice bowls of her friends.
    “Take this one,” she would urge, “this is best.”
    Each guest would feign refusal, smiling all the while with pleasure. Finally, everyone was left to eat the portions fate had left facing in his or her direction, like sections of a pie. To cross over your section was rude, unless you wished to give away a good piece from your own portion to someone else. Because I was a growing boy, I was often given good pieces. Mrs. Chong lifted a leafy stalk into my rice bowl.
    “Be big and strong for my useless daughter,” she said. “Ten thousand blessings!”
    “Here, Kiam-Kim,” Mrs. Wong said, “this morsel of chicken will help you grow up even bigger and stronger.”
    “You be good friend to Jenny,” Mrs. Leong said. “She need good friend.”
    The women all laughed, as if they were sharing a secret.
    “Eat, eat,” Poh-Poh said to me before I could think.
    Through the waves of savoury steam, I stole quick glances at Jenny Chong. Grandmother noticed me looking.
    “Come—come in and eat, Jen-Jen,” Poh-Poh called out. “Kiam-Kim, bring the kitchen chair.”
    Everyone turned to look at Jenny Chong in the parlour. She sat with her hands in her lap as if she had been frozen in ice. Just below her chin, below the ruffles, a pinkish flower was pinned to her red dress; I watched to see if it moved. It didn’t: she was stubbornly holding in her breath. Her two thick pigtails shone like plaited rope under the parlour lamp.
    “No, no, no!” Mrs. Chong said. “Leave my
mo yung
daughter alone. Nobody wants a useless daughter to spoil our dinner!”
    “Stop staring, Kiam.” The Old One shoved me back into my seat. “Eat.”
    The chair I had slipped between Mrs. Chong and Mrs. Wong sat empty. Now I had a direct view into the parlour. Jenny Chong turned her face away, as if she had better things to look at than a bunch of monkeys feeding their fat faces. She pretended to read.
    “Soup very hot,” Poh-Poh said. “Careful, Mrs. Wong.”
    I picked up a piece of chicken, moist with flavour, and held it up to see if I could catch Jenny Chong’s attention. I wanted her to notice, to get up and join us. I chewed and swallowed. She took deep breaths; the pink flower on her dress shifted up and down. She was peeking at me. I picked up an even nicer piece. I made a show of slowly chewing and swallowing the meat. I picked up a length of bok choy with my chopsticks and let it slip gradually,