Grace Hwang Lynch's Open Salon Blog

California's Last Rural Chinatown

Sun, 31 Jul 2011 00:07:13 -0400

Locke, California

A few years ago, our family attended a wedding on the Sacramento River Delta. Although it's less than an hour away from California's state capitol, the whole Delta area is like a trip back in time — or to the Mississippi River– with its wide open farmland, one-stoplight towns, and system of levees and drawbridges.

While looking up information for our trip, I found out that very close to where we were staying was the the last remaining rural Chinatown. Nestled again the dirt levee of the Sacramento River is the tiny town of Locke, California.

Turning down the main street that makes up the old business district of Locke is like a trip-within-a-trip (take that, Hunter S. Thompson!) Leaning wooden buildings, many with second story porches, give you a feeling for what it must have been like back in the early 1900s.

Locke Chinese School

There is an old Chinese school, where the American flag hangs next to the flag of the Republic of China. This is the current flag of Taiwan. You see, Locke was settled during by immigrants from the Canton province of mainland China, between after the last emperor and before the Communist Revolution.

There is a tiny gift shop, the Dai Loy gambling house (which has now been turned into a museum), and a Chinese restaurant.

Bikers are the main visitors in Locke Chinatown

A visitor's center run by the California State Parks system sits at one end of town, but it was not open during our first visit or our return a year later. Less than 80 people currently live in the old homes just off of Main Street.

The town of Locke captured my eye and my imagination. I wondered what it was like back in the day, before the buildings were creaking and leaning -- or were they always that way? My mind raced with a thousand starting points for fictional stories.

Soon after our trip, I heard about Shawna Yang Ryan's novel Water Ghosts. Ryan is a Hapa Taiwanese-American , and this fantasy features-- yes, ghosts--and a main character who is half-Chinese.

Also, if you're interested in non-fiction and beautiful photography, check out Bitter Melon: Inside California's Last Rural Chinese Town by Jeff Gillenkirk and James Motlow.

A version of this piece was originally published as part of the Summer Reading Series on HapaMama.com.

Hitting the Taiwanese American Festival with Linda Shiue

Sun, 15 May 2011 20:05:46 -0400

As part of Asian Pacific American Heritage Month every May, San Francisco's Union Square is home to the annual Taiwanese American Cultural Festival. When I heard about this day-long celebration of culture, music and food, I knew there was one person I had to invite: OS blogger Linda Shiue.

I was ecstatic when Linda emailed me saying she'd love to meet up. Admittedly, I'm a little wary of meeting friends I only know from the Internet. But this was Linda-- a person whose essays often feel so familiar, that I feel like I am reading descriptions of my own childhood. She's just as lively in person as she seems online, and it turns out we have much more in common than our love of good food.

While I had hoped we'd be able to snack on some the traditional Taiwanese street fare, the booths seemed to be running low by the time we arrived. And, since we had both brought our kids along in hopes of teaching them about their heritage, we had to hurriedly gulp down our food while standing in a crowded plaza, juggling armfuls of flyers and craft projects, with answering the never-ending soundtrack of, "Mom, I'm bored!"

As we wandered around the displays, Linda and I discovered that neither of us had been properly taught to speak Mandarin Chinese or the Taiwanese dialect spoken by our families. Like many Gen-X children of immigrants, we both were raised with sort of a mish-mash of English, Taiwanese, and Mandarin.

While there were displays of traditional puppets

and booths to learn Chinese brush painting

The children all liked the carnival games the best, like this one where kids choose a prize by poking a hole through a random square on a paper-covered box.

And while you don't have to be Taiwanese to attend the festival, it was especially fun to visit with someone in whom I could see a reflection of myself.

DNA testing proved my husband is Irish

Thu, 17 Mar 2011 00:03:17 -0400

Fourteen years after my wedding day, I learned that I am married to an Irishman. The surname Lynch was a clue, as was the paternal grandfather whose auburn hair once earned him the nickname "Red". But my husband's family maintained they were part of the English branch of the clan.

Then, my firstborn entered Kindergarten and displayed a preternatural ability for making leprechaun traps and dancing the Irish jig. "Are you sure your ancestors aren't from Ireland?" I asked my husband. The paternal side of his family was from New England. It would not have been uncommon for Irish immigrants to "pass" as English to escape the discrimination of the early 20th century.

My younger son also made a Leprechaun trap this year

Recently, my husband decided to end the questioning with an online DNA testing service, 23andMe. This service bills itself as a way to gain information about hereditary traits, revealing genetic markers for health conditions and ancestry. He ordered the kit for $199 and submitted a saliva sample. A few weeks later the results came back: his paternal lineage was 100% Irish. Scientific testing quantifiably confirmed what a woman's intuition knew all along...

Although it is not my own personal heritage that is being revealed, I find it exciting. I've never liked telling my children that they are half-Taiwanese only to let the other half remain nebulous. "American" is not a suitable enough description for my husband's heritage, since no matter what our ethnic origins we are all American.

As the daughter of immigrants, the idea of not knowing where one's ancestors come feels incomplete. When my husband and I travelled to Taiwan before our children were born, we visited the ancient Buddhist temple where my great-grandparents attended school. My father pointed out the site (now part of a trendy shopping district) where his childhood home once stood.

My husband and I don't know how to be Irish or to celebrate St. Patrick's Day properly. I admit that my constructs of "Irishness" are probably heavy on the glittery green equivalents of red brocade and chopstick lettering. Hinting to my Irish friend, Mary, that I was looking for recipes, I asked, "Do you ever make corned beef and cabbage?"

"Um... not since... I was... a kid," she shuddered.

I ended up making corned beef musubi , a mashup of both of our culinary traditions.

Somehow, even when we got married fourteen years ago , we had a instinctive affinity for things Celtic, as we chose this traditional Irish blessing for our ceremony:

May the road rise up to meet you.

May the wind always be at your back.

May the sun shine warm upon your face,

And rains fall soft upon your fields.

And until we meet again,

May God hold you in the palm of His hand.

A version of this post also appeared on my blog, HapaMama.

Is blogging the new Amway?

Sat, 19 Feb 2011 20:02:35 -0500

During my teenage years, my mother worked as a real estate agent — a successful one, with a corner office wallpapered with plaques listing her as a member of the "Million Dollar Club" (feel free to say that aloud with Austin Powers intonations). To be successful at selling houses, she found any opening in a conversation that could possibly lead to a discussion of real estate. When she drove carpool and noticed that one of my friends' homes was being painted or landscaped, she'd ask, "Are your parents selling? Do you have a Realtor?"

I was mortified by her brazen salesmanship and vowed to never go into any career field that required hawking things. Especially selling things to people I consider friends. I chose a career in journalism and rolled my eyes at the sales and promotions staff who would wander into editorial meetings with "story ideas". As a reporter, I considered my work more noble than merely selling things.

Eight years ago, after spending most of my adult life in a television newsroom, I took a break from the (paid) workforce to raise my kids. Our family lived relatively frugally, confident that our single-income status would be a temporary thing, a few years until the kids were old enough to go to preschool... then Kindergarten.

In Mommyland, I was introduced a whole new world of women who "worked from home". Join any mother's group, and it's only a matter of time before you start getting invited to parties. It starts out like this: you get an email inviting you to someone's house for a Girls Night Out. There will be cocktails, hor d'oevres and jewelry. Or Candlelite, Pampered Chef, Southern Living, Cabi Designs clothing, maybe even good old fashioned Mary Kay cosmetics.

Every invitation comes with a clear disclaimer to "Come for the company, you don't have to buy anything!"

Being a softie, I ultimately either succumb to high-pressure sales or feel so sorry for the hostess — who must be in such dire financial straits that she would debase herself to peddling shlocky goods, that I always end up leaving in possession of more scented hand lotions or Bundt cake pans and less money in my checking account. It took me a long time to learn to tell people that I categorically just don't attend parties where things are sold, joking, "I don't drink and shop," or "I'm taking a break from shopping. " I stopped feeling sorry for these at-home salespeople, knowing that the few vitamins or bracelets I buy would never bring them the six-figure income promised by multi-level marketeers.

Fast forward a few years, and I am trying to once again contribute to our household finances, as a freelance writer and communications consultant. Three years ago, I started my own blog, HapaMama, where I wrote heartfelt essays read largely by no one except the handful of friends I told about it. These days, linking and social media play a crucial role in "building your brand" and "getting exposure". I learned to cross-post every new article on my Facebook status update, I joined networks such as Open Salon, and I put Google Ads on all of my blogs.

No story about my mother and her career would be complete without noting that she did not start out as a salesperson, either. A trained scientist with advanced degrees, she also took time out of the workplace to raise children. She lamented the fact that her skills were obsolete to her industry by the time she tried to return to the laboratory.

I'll be the first to admit that my writing has yet to qualify me for the Million Dollar Club (still trying for a living wage). Maybe I'm no smarter than those women who got suckered into selling Amway. But like my mother, I will have to try and find a way to make things work.

Some other recent posts about the topic of blogging, writing, paid journalism:

Barry Link

Scott Rosenberg

Improved Meyer lemon bars

Sat, 12 Feb 2011 17:02:18 -0500

Early February has been unseasonably warm in the Silicon Valley, with the sun shining and kids wearing shorts and t-shirts to school. It’s hard to believe just a few weeks ago, temperatures were dipping below freezing at night and front lawns were crunchy with frost in the mornings. Even when winter is cold and gray in the Bay Area, there are little drops of sunshine in the form of citrus trees in yards, back and front, decorated with bright fruit. They may be grapefruits you could pitch in a softball game or kumquats no bigger than a thumbnail. When the sun does pierce through the Northern California gray skies, it is often blindingly low on the horizon. Likewise, these homegrown citrus fruits can often come with a tang that will scare off all but the scurviest of sailors.

Enter the Meyer Lemon. Native to China, this petite, thin-skinned variety is actually a cross between a lemon and a mandarin orange, giving it the perfect blend of acid and sugar. However, the delicate rind and high sugar content make for poor shipping and storage, and the Meyer has never caught on as a supermarket item. Pricey in gourmet stores and farmer’s markets, the best way to obtain them is by knowing someone.

Ask and you shall receive

It’s not too hard in the Bay Area, as just about anyone with a yard owns a citrus tree, and when the harvest comes in full and fast, owners can’t give them away quickly enough. I’ve found baskets of Meyers next to the coffee and doughnuts at church, and I’ve been handed bags of them at school pickup.

But not all Meyer lemons are created equal. Some have lighter coloring of the standard Eureka lemon, or the thicker pith of a monstrous Ponderosa lemon. And they are not easy to grow. At least my tree hasn’t been. Planted three years ago, it is still shorter than I. Newer branches sprout inch-long thorns making it hard to check for fruit. Not that there’s been any — until this winter. For the first time, my Meyer lemon tree bore fruit: three of them, in fact.

New and Improved?

As I asked around, I learned that other people had difficulties getting new Meyer Lemon trees to grow. They are sort of hot house flowers. During the 1960s, nearly all of California’s commercial Meyer lemon crop was wiped out by a Tristeza virus, and the remaining orchards were destroyed to avoid contaminating other trees. Growers at Four Winds Nursery found a disease-free strain, and in 1975 released the Improved Meyer Lemon tree for sale.

My friend Mary has a giant Meyer lemon tree in her backyard. The canopy towers over both of us and is filled with more yellow fruit than she can ever pick. Given the size of the tree and the fact that the house dates to the 1930s, it’s safe to assume that this Meyer lemon is a survivor of the original strain. These “heirloom” Meyers appeal to me greatly. Their color is deeper, the rind thinner, the juice sweeter. Or so I lead myself to believe.

While I may doubt the improvements to the Meyer lemon tree, I have found a way to put a new spin on one of on of my favorite baked goods: the lemon bar. The Meyer lemon’s fruit is not its only appeal. When the trees are in bloom, during late-fall and early winter, its purple-tinged white flowers give off a heady fragrance reminiscent of jasmine on a summer evening. I’ve upped the lemon juice and zest content of the filling and incorporated jasmine green tea into the shortbread crust of the traditional recipe, to create — The New Improved Meyer Lemon Bar!

Jasmine Tea and Meyer Lemon Bars

Ingredients

Crust:

1 c. flour

1/4 c. powdered sugar

1/2 c. unsalted butter

1/2 tsp. jasmine tea

Filling:

2 Tbs. flour

3/4 c. sugar

1/2 tsp. baking powder

2 eggs

3 Tbs. Meyer lemon juice

2-3 tsp. grated Meyer lemon zest (or more, if your lemon yields it)

Glaze:

1 tsp. jasmine tea

4 Tbs. powdered sugar

Directions

Butter a 9-inch square baking pan.
Using a chef's knife and a rocking motion, mince the jasmine tea leaves.
Cut the butter into small pieces. Add flour, sugar. When the mixture looks like coarse crumbs, mix in jasmine tea.
Press the crust mixture into the baking pan.
Bake in 350-degree oven for about 15 minutes.
While crust is baking, make the filling: mix the dry ingredients in a bowl.
Lightly beat the eggs, adding lemon juice and lemon zest.
Add dry ingredients from step 6.
As soon as the crust is golden brown, pour the filling over it and return to oven. Bake 25 minutes longer, or until the top is mostly set.
Make the glaze: steep the jasmine tea in one cup hot water. Strain the leaves, and add the brewed tea one spoonful at a time into the powdered sugar, stirring to make a glaze consistency.
Run a thin, sharp knife around the outer rim of the pan as lemon bars are cooling. Drizzle with glaze and cut into sixteen squares.