Page 45 of Worth Fighting For

“I forgot to tell you to angle the fish this way,” he says.

It’s a strain to bite back my laughter. I drag my attention back to the fish and this time make sure to angle it so that when I slide the cleaver down, the scales fly away from me and Shang. It takes a surprisingly long time to get rid of all the scales, and by the time I’m done, my hands are aching from the effort. I stretch them and try not to make a disgusted face as I watch Shang deftly gut the fish.

“What got you into this?” I say.

“By ‘this’ do you mean cooking, or…”

I shake my head. “Plenty of people are into cooking. Not so many people would kill their own ingredients first, though.”

Shang smiles, and it strikes me that this is perhaps the most relaxed I’ve seen him. “Well, what got me into butchering was cooking, believe it or not. When I was growing up, my mom would cook for the both of us. She made the most amazing dishes, and I spent all of my free time in the kitchen with her. But then she developed arthritis in her hands, so I slowly took over. We spent most of our time together in the kitchen, with her guiding me while I cooked.”

Damn it, how dare he have such a sweet backstory. It’s become a real struggle to keep my Zhou mask on around him. “That’s really nice, but like I said, plenty of people cook without feeling the need to butcher?” I wonder if perhaps that came out sharper than intended, but Shang doesn’t seem to mind.

“Funny you say that,” he says. “My mom’s always complaining about how sterile everything is here. She’d tell me how back in China, her family butchered their own meats, and so it made them more thoughtful and careful about what they ate. They didn’t have meat most days; maybe only once or twice a week. Of course, that’s not the case in the big cities, but my family, like yours, isn’t from a big city. It got me thinking about how over here, we get our meats in these neat packages. My nephew didn’t even know that beef comes from cows. He was like, ‘It’s beef, it’s from a hamburger!’”

We both laugh, and he continues: “It’s really cute, but it’s also sort of sad in a way. I resolved to learn more about food, about where it comes from and about being a responsible consumer. I visited meat factories, and what I saw”—he grimaces—“it made me not want to eat factory meats. Back in the city I usually eat vegetarian, and it’s only when we come out here to the ranch that I eat meat, and even then, I want to make sure that I’m respecting the meal by not sterilizing myself from it. I hate killing these animals, just so you know. It makes me lose my appetite a little bit, but better that than pretending that I’m not eating what used to be a live animal.”

Shang speaks with so much compassion, without any traces of judgment in his voice. After a while, all I can say is “Wow.”

Shang grins. “Sorry, did that sound as obnoxious to you as it did to me?”

“No, not at all. It makes sense, actually.” I think of the many rows of neatly packaged meats at the supermarkets I go to and how I’ve never once thought about how far removed we are from the food we’re eating. How I, too, don’t think of the fact that beef comes from cows; I know it on an intellectual level, of course, but haven’t taken the time to really consider what that means.

“So,” Shang says, “would you like to do the honors? The fam has requested roast goose.”

My mouth drops open in horror as excuses ram through my head. Baba would agree to do it. But this is where I draw the line. “I—don’t—uh—”

Shang laughs again. “I was just teasing. I wouldn’t ask you to butcher your first whole goose here. That would be animal cruelty.”

“Not to mention Zhou cruelty.”

“Yes, that too. But you could help me pluck the goose feathers.”

I can’t find a good enough reason not to help with that, and so I do. It’s an exhausting, disturbing affair, and my hands are cramping by the time I’m done. Also, I have zero appetite for goose meat now. I watch Shang clean the goose and prep it for the oven.

“We need to make sure the skin is really dry so it gets extra crispy when we roast it,” he says.

“How do you know all this?”

“How do you know which companies are worth acquiring?” he says.

“Through careful market research and meticulous due diligence,” I answer smartly.

“Okay, mine’s a little bit less clinical than that.” Shang says. “If you must know, I mostly learned through watching YouTube videos. And from my mom. Honestly, I’m grateful that I was mostly raised by my mom. What little I remember of my dad was okay, but not amazing. He reminded me a lot of my uncles. You know, with all that ‘You must be a man’s man’ bullshit.”

My eyebrows knot. Everything I thought I knew about Shang pointed to him being the biggest man’s man. And yet here he is, soft and vulnerable in an utterly disarming way. Could it be that he’s been wearing a mask of his own and I’m only now seeing it slip?

“Okay, I think this is ready to go in the oven.” Shang lifts the goose and carries it to a huge pizza oven that he’s warmed up in advance. He sticks the goose inside and closes the door before turning back to me. “Now let’s do the fish.”

While I chop up various vegetables, Shang deep-fries the fish, filling the air with an incredibly savory smell. He places the cooked fish onto huge metal platters, then whips up a mouthwatering Szechuan chili sauce, which he pours over the fish. To finish it off, he puts fresh Szechuan peppers, chopped chilies, and cilantro on top before dousing it with boiling hot oil. The oil sizzles as it hits the garnish, and I find that I’m practically drooling. He takes the vegetables from me and throws them into a pot of half-cooked rice, then asks if I could do the salad, before going back to whipping up yet another delectable dish.

Before long, the outdoor dining table is groaning under the weight of at least ten amazing dishes, each one more delicious than the last. Everyone gathers, and glasses are filled to the brim and plates loaded up with steaming-hot food.

“Zhou, you eat more,” Auntie Chuang says, piling huge scoops of rice and sweet braised soy sauce pork onto my plate. “You are so skinny, you need to gain more weight to get good baby-bearing hips.”

My parents have never said such things to me, but I’ve grown up around enough immigrant families to not be taken aback by it. I thank Auntie Chuang and return the favor by spooning food onto the elders’ plates.

“Zhou, what is your astrology?” Auntie Chuang says.

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