With mom spiraling towards death <br />and us standing around like actors <br />waiting for stage direction, <br />Zheng Wei went to work in the kitchen <br />chopping the cabbage and garlic <br />preparing the sauce, <br />We pitched in like Amish, <br />laughing a little extra <br />at our clumsy attempts <br />to roll the dumplings <br />in a missing man formation <br />for her to stand there <br />in the kitchen <br />rolling and laughing with us <br />instead of lost under miles of knots. <br />She would certainly have had a story about this, <br />about the dumplings she once had in - what was <br />the name of the place - in Shanghai <br />where they thought she was a VIP <br />and showered her with free delicacies. <br /> <br />Zheng Wei lowered the dumplings into the pot. <br />He could do nothing for my mother <br />so he made dumplings, <br />and they tasted like <br />rescue from a dream of falling<br /><br />Michael Philips<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-best-dumplings-in-the-world/
