grandma's dumplings, 好吃?

You are back in the family kitchen, scooping filling into round sheets of dough while your grandmother works beside you, moving so fast from left to right that you can barely keep up, and you are still struggling to fold yours neatly. Your cousin is there, and your aunt and uncle, your mother, your grandfather, all of you turning out huge batches to freeze for later. The wooden chopsticks clink as the filling is stirred and lifted, a sound you could pick out anywhere. Then everyone sits and eats together, and your grandmother leans in to ask "好吃?", wanting only to know it is good. Long after, a bowl of soup dumplings or a tray steamed fresh brings her straight back the moment the steam begins to rise. It lives now as cedarwood, soft musk, milky black tea and warm skin.