“Ni chi bao le ma?” (pronounced knee zhe bao leh mah) in Chinese translates to “Are you full?” and loosely means “How are you?” or “Have you eaten yet?”
Food is such a centerpiece in Chinese culture that the greeting is about food, and the hopeful response to “Ni chi bao le ma?” is “Wo chi bao le… hon bao” (pronounced waw zhe bao leh… hun bao), meaning “I am full… very full,” because food brings fulfillment and nourishment.
Growing up with chronic kidney disease and with a single father who was once a chef to make ends meet as an immigrant from China, means that food and my father were the critical parts to the whole of my life. I do not remember much of my childhood when I was on peritoneal dialysis at age three and being in and out of the hospital on many occasions, but I do remember the discovery of food after my first life-saving kidney transplant at age five. There was my father’s famous melt-in-your mouth pork spareribs drowned in juicy umami-flavored soy sauce blanketing fluffy white rice. I remember fleshy and pink salmon with crispy, crunchy skin.
I learned to use chopsticks when my first kidney transplant began to fail and was so proud when clamping new foods with them that I was more than open to try, and then devour. At age 11 with a failing first kidney transplant, I was placed on a strict diet where I could not eat any dairy products. It was sad and torturous being that I loved everything dairy. When I was gifted with my second life-saving kidney transplant at almost age 12 and in recovery, all I wanted and craved was ice cream, particularly scoops of strong coffee ice cream or cheddar goldfish crackers swimming in Carvel ice cream cake with the crunchies in the center. To this day, ice cream is my ultimate love and weakness.
The love for food my family and I had was so deep that the channel we tuned into was The Food Network. Every Tuesday at 7 p.m., you would find me on the couch watching the TV Show “Chopped” starring Ted Allen as host, three starred and ultra-critical chef judges, and four eager chef contestants with the last chef standing winning $10,000. In three rounds of meals of appetizer (20 minutes), entrée (30 minutes), and dessert (30 minutes), the four chef contestants had to use four mystery basket ingredients to whip up a meal within the crunched amount of time.
I loved when Ted Allen introduced each chef and their stories of challenges, hardships, and life experiences. I loved that each of the passion and purpose-driven chefs used food as the centerpiece that brought comfort and joy to cook for themselves, loved ones, or their community at large. Many chefs had parents who died or did not believe in the chef’s love and path for labor-intensive, long hours of becoming a chef. There were also chefs who had their own health issues where food had become a tool for health and betterment.
One of my favorite episodes was when celebrity chefs competed for non-profit organizations, one of them being Michael Psilakis who shared about a beloved family member suffering from polycystic kidney disease. I learned about new foodie items, including garlic scapes, fava beans that require peeled skins, the Dukka spice, and the perfect cuts and presentations because “we eat with our eyes first.”
However, the most treasured part of all about this show was that my father would often join me, and when dramatic music came on or we were left with a cliffhanger before the commercials, we would ask each other, “Would you eat that?” “What would you make out of that ingredient?” “Who do you think is going to get ‘chopped’ or win?”
After two of my life-saving kidney transplants, when I watched this show I felt fulfilled, fortified, comforted, and hopeful that I could carry on just like each chef who had been “chopped,” or the last standing and winning chef.
My father was the man who laid the foundation of food for me as the ultimate comfort and joy. “Chopped” was the TV show series, and its many episodes showed me about life as the contestants competed: try even if you fail; use all your techniques and skills; never give up; always move on from one round to the next; and even though down, certainly not out.
So, “Ni chi bao le ma?” Indeed, “Wo chi bao le… hon bao.”
Mary H. Wu is an ABC (American-Born Chinese) patient advocate, poet, published writer, and author of her journey as a two-time kidney transplant recipient “Confessions of a Kidney Transplant Recipient.” She is an avid foodie, tea drinker, traveler, writer, cat lover, and swimmer. To contact her and learn more about her, please go to “The Wu Way” at https://mwu827.wixsite.com/thewuway
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