How to Make Mapo Tofu
By: Candace Cui
Tags: Trauma, Abuse, Recipe, Asian American, Memoir

First, assemble your ingredients. Chinese cooking is fast and doesn’t wait for the unprepared. There’s the soft tofu of course, which should be cubed. You have green onions, oil, optional meat and veggies, and pre-packaged sauce.

I stop to think about whether this can be considered an authentic recipe if I didn’t make it from scratch. I’m not even sure exactly what goes into making a mapo tofu sauce. I know that the brand I’m using, with the bright red, flat box and green label, is the one I’ve always used. Did my mother use it? I can picture her standing at the marble kitchen counter opening the packet with kitchen shears, but I could be wrong.

Next, you grab the wok and turn the heat up to high.

I need to keep it from sliding off the uneven burners in my tiny Manhattan apartment. It should be easier to keep clean with a space this small, but it seems like a losing battle. I gave up on keeping my home neat when I was fourteen years old, trying to bury my body in the tan Berber carpet of my bedroom as my father threw my desk chair against the wall by my head. In the space of a whimper, I was out the front door. I can still feel the jagged rocks of the ditch I climbed over when I ran through the neighborhood, panting softly that he was going to kill me please help oh please help he’s going to kill me.

Add about a tablespoon of cooking oil, vegetable or olive oil work best. Chop about two tablespoons of green onion, white ends first without the roots, and add it into the hot oil.

Mommy would make eggs for dinner at least three times a week. She loves eggs, but Daddy doesn’t. He was born on a communist work-farm on the border of Mongolia and didn’t have an egg until he was seventeen. He jokes with her that she does this just to piss him off. His voice is laughing through the shushing sounds of Mandarin. One day, he isn’t joking and the eggs end up in the trash. So does the pretty curved plate, and the plate snaps against the bottom of the garbage can.

When you can smell the green onions release their oils, add in the cubed tofu. If you’re adding ground meat, add that before the tofu and cook halfway. Then carefully stir the tofu so the pieces are not broken up too much.

In my great-aunt’s house, I remember yelling: my parents screaming at each other while I pretended to nap on the mustard chintz couch in the living room. Guo Ma, what I called this great-aunt I had met only a month before when we stepped off the plane from China, must not have been home. She would not have accepted this type of behavior, and especially not in front of a three year-old. The next day, my mother sat alone with me in the breakfast nook. The sun shone brightly on the sunflower tablecloth and I stared at her clasped hands on the tabletop. I only understood Mandarin then. “If we were divorced, would you rather live with Baba or me?” I couldn’t answer. I didn’t know how.

After the tofu has cooked for about five minutes, add in the sauce. Turn the heat down to medium-high and stir the sauce so that the tofu is coated. It will appear too thick but the liquid from the tofu will thin it out.

I’m too full, I know that I’m too full. Mommy has made bone soup and chives with beansprouts. I love this meal and I took too much, so now it’s sitting in my bowl. They break the silence by asking why I’m not eating. I say that I’m too full. Daddy tells me I’m greedy. Mommy says I waste food. They won’t let me get up from the table, and I’m scared. The fear hurts in my stomach and makes it harder to pick up the spoon, but I have to. They only let me stop when I’m throwing up rice and soup back into my bowl.

Once your sauce is boiling, add additional vegetables or mushrooms as desired. Peas or carrots can add texture, whereas small mushrooms are a good replacement protein for the meat. Be sure to chop any added ingredients finely.

My mother has a large butcher’s knife in a drawer. It has a bamboo handle and a wide square blade with a stamp imprinted in the steel. She uses it to chop through tough things, and the thwack against the wooden cutting board is as sharp as the knife. I told my father I was an American now and that I didn’t have to do everything he told me to. He got up from the dining table, grabbed her knife out of its drawer, and held it against my wrist. It happened so quickly that I couldn’t move, so he pressed the edge into the soft flesh of my inner arm. “In this house, my house, it is China. I can do whatever I want to you. You’re mine and no one could stop me from killing you if I wanted to. Call the police. Call whoever you want. You’re nothing. They won’t stop me.”

When the mapo tofu has been simmering for about 10 minutes, stirring occasionally, you can turn off the heat. Add a few more chopped green onions for garnish and scent. Serve with a side of white rice.

My first memory is walking across the floor of our first family apartment in Yangzhou. It has electricity but no running water and no flooring. I tripped on the ground carrying my little rice bowl. The thin, weak porcelain shatters and the rice is mixed in with the dirt. When I look up at my mother, she is crying. There’s no more rice to eat.

That’s it. You’ve made mapo tofu.