Gengba

Gengba

　　During a gathering with friends, there was an item on the menu called “Floating on Water.” When someone asked what it was, the answer came: gengba. Without thinking, I blurted out, “I’ll have one.”

　　That one serving of gengba instantly brought back sweet memories of the dish from my childhood. The scenes of cooking and eating gengba as a child immediately flashed before my eyes.

　　Back then, gengba wasn’t something we could eat often. We only made it when we had rice milled at home. And the number of times we had rice milled each year was limited, so the occasions to eat gengba were even fewer. In those days of material scarcity, after every milling session, my mother would sift the rice. The whole grains were used for cooking rice, while the fine grains that didn’t mill well were unsuitable for cooking and were instead ground into rice flour using our home stone mill to make (or cook) gengba. Whenever Grandma was about to make gengba, I would always go to the stove to help her boil water. Grandma would first put the rice flour into a clay bowl, add a bit of water to moisten it, and once the water boiled, she would carefully scoop the wet flour into the pot, spoonful by spoonful, with a ladle. After transferring all the flour, she would even rinse the clay bowl and pour the water into the pot. She’d cover the pot, and before long, steam would rise vigorously from the edges. Grandma would lift the lid, and one by one, the gengba would float to the surface. Then she’d add some greens, a bit of salt, and two dollops of lard with chopsticks. Instantly, the aroma would fill the kitchen. I’d quickly get a big bowl, pick up a gengba with chopsticks, blow on it a little, and take a big bite before it even cooled down. Ah, it was so hot!! I’d keep shifting the gengba from left to right, then right to left, all the while puffing and sighing. Grandma would quickly remind me, “Slow down, slow down, don’t burn your mouth, don’t choke.” She’d even blow on it with her chopsticks to cool it off for me, smiling as she watched me eat... If the gourds in the garden had grown big, Grandma would swap the cabbage for gourd. The sweet taste of the gourd was even more delicious and fragrant than the cabbage.

　　Many years have passed, and we haven’t ground rice flour or made gengba at home since. Those bowls of fragrant gengba still linger in memory. When will I ever get to taste that gengba from those days again?

　　Finally, the “Floating on Water” was served. Round, milky-white gengba pieces floated alongside vibrant green cabbage leaves in the plate. I scooped a bowl, picked one up, and just like in my childhood, eagerly took a bite. A burst of aroma filled the air, and it felt as if I could hear Grandma’s voice saying, “Eat slowly, don’t burn your mouth, don’t choke...”

　　I’ve also bought rice flour at the supermarket to make gengba myself, adding eggs to the flour and tomatoes inside the gengba. The egg-added gengba turned a light milky yellow, paired with red tomatoes—the colors alone were enough to whet anyone’s appetite. A drizzle of small-grind sesame oil made it incredibly savory. I’ve also tried adding dried shrimp and seaweed to the gengba, and sometimes swapped in shredded potatoes. Even though my husband always says, “This flavor is truly heavenly, rarely found in this world,” every time I eat it, I can almost hear Grandma’s voice: “Eat slowly, don’t burn your mouth, don’t choke...” I always feel that the gengba from my childhood was the best, the most flavorful of all.