The girls from Hong Kong cook

wontons

“They’ll come over Saturday,” he says.

“Who?” she asks.

“The two girls I told you about. The girls from Hong Kong.”

The young ladies have agreed to cook a genuine Chinese meal for them.

“The kids and I will pick them up and go shopping for the ingredients.”

They arrive with shy giggles. They take off their parkas and boots and with the kids help cart the groceries to the kitchen. Language isn’t too much of a problem although she has no idea what some of the utensils they ask for could possibly be.

For two hours the girls cook and for two hours she wipes oil off the stove, the counter top, the wall beside the stove. She knows she’ll be cleaning for a long time after the girls leave but the smells are delicious as wontons appear as if by magic. The kids are diligently filling and shaping the wontons as instructed. Some go into the soup, others are deep fried.

More instructions and demonstrations, more patting and shaping and stirring. Noodles, rice, pork and chicken … She can’t keep up with the names of them all. More delicious aromas set their mouths to watering.

Finally the girls declare all is ready. They sit in the dining room and survey the heavily laden table. How can they possibly eat it all? Ten minutes later, the platters and plates are empty. They lean back and sigh with satisfaction. Was it worth all the work and the mess? Yes!