Grave-side picnic

The Chinese celebrate something similar to the Day of the Dead, where people go to the burial grounds of their relatives to pay their respects and leave an offering. My mom thought it was great that I was in town this year so that I could go with my family to the grave site of my grandfather.

Jeanne and I woke up early. We were disappointed to see that the ground was wet with recent rain (it meant that we had another day of not driving around in the rental convertible with the top down), but our dad thought it was the perfect weather for a trip to the cemetery. Our mom sent our dad off to pick up the roast pig, some bread, Chinese buns, and dumplings as she worked in the kitchen frying up turnip cake.

We packed up the van with the food and drove off to the Rose Hills burial ground, where we were met by the rest of our extended family. Mom laid out the blanket and started to spread out all the food: the whole roast pig, the loaves of bread, sticky rice, turnip cake, the buns, the dumplings, fruit, and candy. Dad opened up a bottle of Tsingtao beer and placed it in front of the grave marker, which was surrounded by burning incense that we lighted and stuck into the ground. There was also a 12-bottle case of Heineken's that my uncle brought. My aunt also placed a loaf of bread and some candy on one of the neighboring graves, that of a former LAPD officer, and some rice and turnip cake for the grandmother of my friend Sophia.

Able to see our breath in the cold, we said our prayers to Grandpa and I wished him a good life wherever he was. Afterwards, it was time to eat. My mom pulled out her cleaver and the chopping board and, on the wet hill, hacked the roast pig into small rectangles. She filled bread with the meat and passed the sandwiches around so that we all stood eating roast pork sandwiches around my grandfather's grave. The bread was crunchy and its crumbs flecked my purple hoodie. The pork was succulent, sweet, and juicy, and the skin perfectly crisp. I stood on that hill eating my sandwich as I watched the clouds break over the buildings of downtown LA. My aunts, uncles, and cousins also took bites of the pork, praising its tastiness. Dad opened a bottle of Heineken to go along with his sandwich.

When we finished eating and were tired of the cold, we packed up all the food, said a final goodbye to Grandpa, and caravaned down the hill.