All That Matters by Wayson Choy Page A

lusciously, into my mouth. I thought Poh-Poh should also see how much I enjoyed her cooking, but all the ladies hardly noticed me. Mrs. Chong went on talking about whose Pender Street business might fail next, and the others nodded sadly. In between the nodding, the women slurped their hot soup and complimented the Old One on her cooking.
    “Nothing at all,” Poh-Poh responded. “So simple to make.”
    I moved my chopsticks over the glistening mushrooms studded with crushed peanuts and seasoned with soy, and the fresh-picked green beans and savoury fried onions. My smiling face and my broad table gestures were all saying
delicious!
    I chewed with even greater mouth-watering, Charlie Chaplin intensity, desperate to catch the eye of someone starving to death. She should come to the table, I thought, add to Poh-Poh’s joy.
    Jenny Chong’s head turned slightly. She looked at me from the corner of her eye. I imagined herstomach growling with hunger, a tigress’s empty belly, her mouth salivating, her eyes the eyes of a huntress. Her jaw moved slightly, as if she were chewing.
    I gobbled down some rice like a hungry bear. I took up my spoon and royally dipped into the communal bowl. The mixed pork and chicken broth was savoury with sweet dried shrimp and greens. I slowly tipped the brimming porcelain spoon and caught a square of melon.
    I only meant to slurp gently, but the heat of the melon caught me off guard. I gulped, gasped. Everyone stopped talking. I sputtered, a trail of glowing liquid dribbling down the corner of my mouth. Jenny Chong stared wide-eyed. Knuckles rapped my head.
    “Stop showing off,” Poh-Poh said. “No one wants you!”
    Beneath the stinging pain, through the waves of half-swallowed heat that made my eyes tear, I saw a grin break out on Jenny Chong’s face.
    After dinner, when all the ladies had helped Poh-Poh clear the dishes away, the women persuaded Mrs. Chong to let Jenny out of the parlour.
    “She only a child,” Mrs. Leong said. “She learn her lesson, yes, yes.”
    “Too much discipline,” Poh-Poh said, “can spoil the lesson.”
    “And not enough discipline,” Mrs. Chong sniffed into her flowery hanky, “spoils the child.”
    Poh-Poh and Mrs. Wong stared at Mrs. Chong until she relented. She got up, knuckled Jenny, and sent her smarting out of the parlour.
    “You go help Kiam-Kim clean up,” she commanded, and pushed her dead girl in the direction of the kitchen.
    Poh-Poh suggested that Jenny help me rinse the dishes to be washed later. In the kitchen, she quietly offered some soup to Jenny, but Mrs. Chong stood guard at the doorway.
    “Let her starve,” she said. “Let this
mo yung
girl earn her keep like we did in Old China. Who gave us good soup?”
    “Every child spoiled here,” Mrs. Pan Wong said. “My two grandsons always they beg for candy and Coca-Cola! They die soon, poisoned!”
    “You show Jen-Jen what to do,” Grandmother said to me.
    “A fine, fine First Grandson, your Kiam-Kim,” Mrs. Chong said. “Oh, why am I cursed with such a daughter!” She pushed up her silk sleeves and went back to the mahjong table, all set up for another round.
    Grandmother shut the kitchen door behind her and left the two of us by ourselves.
    Jenny stuck her tongue out, then turned to the platters of leftovers. She picked up some chicken and vegetables with her fingers. Through the door, I could hear the loud clicking of the mahjong tiles, the muffled chattering of satisfied voices rising with pleasure and complaint.
    “What job do you want?” I said. “Rinsing or stacking?”
    “Shut your mouth,” she mumbled. She picked up a pair of chopsticks and started chewing on a piece of chicken, then she dashed in some rice. A grain of rice stuck to her chin; she ignored it. She tilted the soup bowl to scoop up what was left. Piles of dirty bowls and plates sat on the galvanized wash counter.
    “I’ll get the sink rack ready,” I said.
    I always liked doing this orderly chore.