Feast

I was asked once how I do it, and why I do it. How a boy who grew up in the 'west' still clings onto some traditions and superstitions of the 'east', and why anyone would go through all the trouble to prepare an elaborate feast for guests you can't even see.

I'm not sure how, but I know why. Deep down inside, there is still a part of me that is rooted in the culture and place of my homeland, in the beliefs and practices of my ancestors. Though nobody, not even my mum, told me I have to lay the table and cook up ten different dishes, I do it. Not out of a sense of duty, but more out of a sense of willingness and joy. I want to 'treat' the ghosts who wander the world to a big meal... I want to 'invite' my ancestors and my dad over for a big get-together.

I don't see a contradiction between worshipping ghosts and the deceased and that ('western') part of me which believes strongly in the power of reason and rationality, and the freedoms and rights of the individual. If anything, I think the inherent part of me that clings onto the traditions of the past enriches my experience of life and fulfil me with experiences of the little things in this world that matter. As the Taiwanese saying goes, when you eat the fruit, pray to the tree (that bears the fruit; 吃水果，拜樹頭)... another one is when you drink, think of the source (of water; 飲水思源)... all that I am today, all that I have come from somewhere. And everyday that I am living I should remember people like my dad, and his mum and dad, who toiled and sacrificed all their lives so that people like me can have a more comfortable and better future...

Like a lot festivals, the Ghost Day centres on food. So once again, on this fifteenth day of the seventh month in the lunar calendar, I got up (relatively) early and started preparing. Actually, the preparations were well under way a few days ago when I began buying all sorts of materials for cooking. Various kinds of green vegetables, tins and cans of pickles, packets of cookies and sweets, bottles of soft drinks. And yesterday, I went out of my way to Chinatown in order to buy half a roast duck and a whole chicken for today's big feast.

Turnip and mushroom soup with duck stock, stir-fried gourd with dried shrimps and garlic, chives with garlic, egg omlete with dried pickled turnip, shrimp with peas stir-fry, pakchoy with shitake mushrooms... just some of the things I cooked up within two hours. By midday, besides
a big basket filled with fresh kiwis, oranges, peaches and a pineapple, the table was so crowded
with dishes I had to stack some plates on top of each other. I laid down a few pairs of chopsticks, three little tea cups, a few rice bowls, and stood before the table with my hands clasped before my chest...

"Ancestors, grandma, grandpa, dad..." I said silently, and invited them over to eat. It's not much, nothing elaborate or exquisite, just a few things that I know how to make (or buy...). Some things, like squid and eel, roast duck and chicken, I know were favourites of dad.

It's all mainly a gesture, a symbol, a reminder to myself, to them if they are really here still, that I still hold them dear to my heart. That they are still in my thoughts and memories...