rabbit found Usko’s eraser, popped it in its mouth and began to nibble it.
‘Out! You’re nothing but a horse trader! Out! I’ll call the police.’
And all too soon the siren of a police car was heard outside. Vatanescu leapt down the stairs and managed to pass the front door just before the policemen got out of their car. He set off in the opposite direction, trying not to run to avoid drawing attention to himself.
I have international crime and the Finnish police after me.
I would cry if I wasn’t laughing.
M ing Po had left Saigon for the Helsinki suburb of Malmi over thirty years earlier. His travel plans had been strongly influenced by the war, which hadmade it necessary for him and his family to seek exile abroad. They had rocked about in a mortally dangerous boat in the middle of the open sea, and had spent some of the time in refugee camps.
Ming’s mother, Ding, had a magic spoon, as all good fairies do. She was like Finland’s favourite television cook Teija Sopanen or Mother Amma before she took to embracing people. Outside there might be genocide, napalm or Noah’s Flood, but within the confines of the tent or in the open air by a naked flame, the delicious fragrance of Ding Po’s cooking always brought a smile to people’s faces. The lack of raw materials was never a problem; Ding accepted difficult conditions as a challenge. Not only was she fond of cooking, but cooking was fond of her.
What casseroles Ding was able to simmer in the oven out of bamboo shoots and rat meat! She had the art of spice in her fingertips, the correct preparation times in her soul, and it could be said that for a whole decade her cooking had kept her family alive, both spiritually and physically. It soothed the horror of the everyday. Ding Po gave part of herself in every pot and bowl she served to her husband and children, of whom her favourite was Ming, who had preserved his chubby cheeks in spite of the hard times. He was Mum’s kitchen companion, and he peeled onions at the age of three, gutted the burbot, plucked and jointed the pigeon, tasted the sauces and became an indisputable master of the balance between sweet and sour.
When their wandering as refugees ended in the autumn of 1977 in a well-heated two-room apartment in Malmi, Ding felt she had fulfilled her duty. She saw her three children asleep on a mattress on the floor, tested the central-heating radiator that distributed the warmth that came from afar, admired the electric cooker andoven in the kitchen, and went to put more blankets on her offspring.
Her husband, King Po, came to join her. He placed his hands on his wife’s shoulders, and then Ding died. Having given everything, with the journey complete. With her children alive.
From his mother Ming Po inherited a wok and an attitude to life. You’ll survive it all, never complain, see the good in people, you’ll find it easier that way – of course they’re stupid, but are you yourself so eternally wise? Think about that, look in the mirror, don’t be proud and don’t be cynical. They can take everything away from you, but don’t let them have your cooking pot. A well-simmered casserole will open the way to anyone’s heart. Be careful about what food you cook for which woman, and you will win them all. Listen to Pave Maijanen’s record ‘Take Care’ when it comes out, then you will finally understand what I mean.
At the age of seventeen, Ming Po rented a disused fire station and set up a restaurant there. The restaurant became known as ‘the Chinese restaurant’, even though it had a carefully chosen Vietnamese name. In the queue at the local supermarket he met Marjatta, who became his wife. His father was against the marriage and wanted a daughter-in-law from his own people, but was talked round when Ming explained to him that the only girl who would meet his criteria was located thousands of miles away in a crisis zone. Ming said that Marjatta was just right for him, and, in
‘Out! You’re nothing but a horse trader! Out! I’ll call the police.’
And all too soon the siren of a police car was heard outside. Vatanescu leapt down the stairs and managed to pass the front door just before the policemen got out of their car. He set off in the opposite direction, trying not to run to avoid drawing attention to himself.
I have international crime and the Finnish police after me.
I would cry if I wasn’t laughing.
M ing Po had left Saigon for the Helsinki suburb of Malmi over thirty years earlier. His travel plans had been strongly influenced by the war, which hadmade it necessary for him and his family to seek exile abroad. They had rocked about in a mortally dangerous boat in the middle of the open sea, and had spent some of the time in refugee camps.
Ming’s mother, Ding, had a magic spoon, as all good fairies do. She was like Finland’s favourite television cook Teija Sopanen or Mother Amma before she took to embracing people. Outside there might be genocide, napalm or Noah’s Flood, but within the confines of the tent or in the open air by a naked flame, the delicious fragrance of Ding Po’s cooking always brought a smile to people’s faces. The lack of raw materials was never a problem; Ding accepted difficult conditions as a challenge. Not only was she fond of cooking, but cooking was fond of her.
What casseroles Ding was able to simmer in the oven out of bamboo shoots and rat meat! She had the art of spice in her fingertips, the correct preparation times in her soul, and it could be said that for a whole decade her cooking had kept her family alive, both spiritually and physically. It soothed the horror of the everyday. Ding Po gave part of herself in every pot and bowl she served to her husband and children, of whom her favourite was Ming, who had preserved his chubby cheeks in spite of the hard times. He was Mum’s kitchen companion, and he peeled onions at the age of three, gutted the burbot, plucked and jointed the pigeon, tasted the sauces and became an indisputable master of the balance between sweet and sour.
When their wandering as refugees ended in the autumn of 1977 in a well-heated two-room apartment in Malmi, Ding felt she had fulfilled her duty. She saw her three children asleep on a mattress on the floor, tested the central-heating radiator that distributed the warmth that came from afar, admired the electric cooker andoven in the kitchen, and went to put more blankets on her offspring.
Her husband, King Po, came to join her. He placed his hands on his wife’s shoulders, and then Ding died. Having given everything, with the journey complete. With her children alive.
From his mother Ming Po inherited a wok and an attitude to life. You’ll survive it all, never complain, see the good in people, you’ll find it easier that way – of course they’re stupid, but are you yourself so eternally wise? Think about that, look in the mirror, don’t be proud and don’t be cynical. They can take everything away from you, but don’t let them have your cooking pot. A well-simmered casserole will open the way to anyone’s heart. Be careful about what food you cook for which woman, and you will win them all. Listen to Pave Maijanen’s record ‘Take Care’ when it comes out, then you will finally understand what I mean.
At the age of seventeen, Ming Po rented a disused fire station and set up a restaurant there. The restaurant became known as ‘the Chinese restaurant’, even though it had a carefully chosen Vietnamese name. In the queue at the local supermarket he met Marjatta, who became his wife. His father was against the marriage and wanted a daughter-in-law from his own people, but was talked round when Ming explained to him that the only girl who would meet his criteria was located thousands of miles away in a crisis zone. Ming said that Marjatta was just right for him, and, in
Similar Books
