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Quiet Midautumn Night's Haibun

by Astrid Liu

 

I’ve forgotten to buy hotpot base for my hot pot karaoke night. My first time hosting Midautumn. My first not calling home. What was the point of learning Cantonese if I have no one to speak it to? The full moon is headlight-bright, pools of frost in the Arizona heat. A beacon. An embrace. Then it’s 6 pm and someone’s somehow broken the queer time code, so I let them in, scramble to make my own stock. Hunt out: star anise, bay leaves, white pepper, longan sugar. Szechuan peppers wrinkled & red, goji berries wrinkled & red, shiitake wizened & curled, chenpei wizened & curled. They seep color into the surrounding broth. The stock steeps dark. I only have seating for seven. Nine if we squeeze on the couch. I could smell the good smells all the way from the parking lot. At 7 pm we run out of chairs. My entryway has never been so stuffed, sandals and shoes all fanned out in loose rings. I think of home—parties passing around Costco bottles of Pepcid, Lactaid. Take my seat! Our turn’s over. We’ve eaten enough. Trade shifts with me, it’s my turn to pick the karaoke song. Come sit, come sit. We run out of shabu-shabu meat well before the night is over. Supplement with knife-cut noodles, soba from Tokyo. Carbs cut the cost of meat—an ancient wisdom. Mooncakes mix with mini chocolate croissants and chocolate peanut butter patties and fast acting CBD powder. Then we sing. O, how we sing betrayal. daughter- after all we’ve sacrificed you yet feel joy without us? betrayal. daughter- after all they’ve sacrificed you yet feel joy without them? betrayal. daughter- after all they’ve sacrificed you yet feel joy without shame?

 



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