Temples & IceCream

Thursday 19th February

As I lingered at the back of the temple, desperate not to do anything wrong or get in the way, the family set about preparing offerings to Buddha. Plastic red bowls were filled to the brim with fruit mainly although other offerings were also made – not sacrificial white dressed virgins, you understand: simple food stuffs and the like. It was cold, really bloody cold. The cold where your fingertips feel like they’ve tightened beneath skin that’s too small. But if Chinese Granny could function, so could this pale, determined little westerner – although I do maintain that with her pottering around offering prayers and fruit, she was in actual fact exercising. I suppose at that age, one doesn’t have to don lycra and jump around to keep the joints working? A simple back and forth to the table in front of a large golden budda would suffice if attempted at a reasonable speed.
All the while, the monks continued chanting occasionally, delicately, stroking the wooden drums, one of which incidentally looked like a huge wooden frog. It really was quite magical, a constant melody, punctuated with well-placed bass and a hustle of family tooing and froing offering a persistent if not fragmented voice. My own contribution, the odd shuffle out of someone’s way!

The monks wore yellow and orange, I, after Chinese Granny stopped the shuffling, glanced fleetingly at my attire frowned, disappeared then reappeared with a garment clutched in her hands, wore the rather fetching brown dressing gown like creation which so many of you appreciated in my pictures. Most aware of the fact that while granny was dressing me – yep, I had a little trouble with the ties, my host’s cousins were enjoying a good hearted giggle at my expense. Luckily, and had I not been in a temple I’m not sure I would have stopped myself, I checked myself in time so as to avoid the little two fingered salute that would have resulted in any other situation! You see, I was behaving and I would do nothing wrong in this temple. I actually congratulated myself that I didn’t swear, I really did. No eye contact, only a brief grunt later, granny had finished her chore of dressing the 35 year old and led the rest of the family to kneel at the cushions while I lingered at the back. This brief sanctity lasted until first granny’s gaze then all the family heads turned to seek me from the shadows – looks like I’m joining in then.
SO as far as religious ceremonies go, I’m alright; I can sing along at the hymns, look attentive, stand when necessary, adopt a pious persona… yet sheer panic set in when after the multiple knee bends, head drops and bows ceased, all stood to follow one of the monks around to the front of the temple. In front of the budda we faced another cushion, a single one. Were we all to offer individual prayers? I followed my friend, desperately trying to peek round to see what I should do, knowing that this could be potentially disastrous. Ah, right! Got it. It’s like the cracker and wine moment at church, good perhaps a little vino will warm the body a tad, hopefully the finger tips first. I must have been a smidge slow as a felt a none too gentle shove in my back when it was my turn. I had been trying to offer some personal space to the person in front but Granny, whether through friendly encouragement or impatient annoyance felt this was not necessary!

It wasn’t bread and it wasn’t wine (dammit). What the monk handed me was a small wooden stick which I assumed represented a prayer. I was to offer this stick to the monumentous gold budda aloft in front of me before sticking into the ash in a pot. I’m proud to say I said a little ‘hello’ to budda, thanked him for his hospitality and asked him to look after my family, if it wasn’t too much trouble. All went well despite a little trip on the way up from the cushion: the dressing gown was too long and my joints stiff from the cold – they were giggling again. No fingers! Stand down, stand down!
Two hours later, after several single file laps of the temple; after more kneeling and sticking in of sticks, after more bowing and ‘praying’ – I was actually having a private little chat with budda. It may have appeared a monologue but I assumed budda could hear and deemed that we were getting along famously – no bug had bitten me, no thunderbolt clapped me or mysterious crack in the floor tripped me so I saw no reason why he might consider my mumblings an annoyance.

The ceremony ended and the last heavy beat on the drum sounded, all was silent and the main monk man sang the list of names granny had provided for blessing. It included my name and I felt truly very honoured – even though I had not recognised it. It was time to burn the beautifully written prayers, scribed onto thin paper that granny had been producing for her family all year. She’d done one for me too – very humbling.

We left after a while, five of us squashed in the back of cousin Ting’s Mercedes to retire for a midmorning nap before lunch. I’m not sure if this is clear through the blogs but writing retrospectively it seems as if most if the time, what I did in Fenghua was eat with the family in various houses around various glass topped round tables. These meals were both painful and pleasurable. I wondered at how brave I was at experimenting with food. Could I actually pick up that raw, cold crab and suck out the innards, crunching on claws to remove the juice? As one of my neighbours at the table ground down a crab claw and slurped, I decided not.

Socially though, dinner that day was far more comfortable. People seemed less awkward and obliged to talk to me and whilst frequent ‘cheers’ rang around the table, I was included and welcomed although not under pressure. I’m not sure how it happened but I did communicate, I laughed both at myself and at the jokes I didn’t but did understand: it became fun.
Dinner over and a brief sojourn enjoyed in the garden, it was decided pudding was next. Buggerations! A fairly stressful and unsuccessful trip to a local supermarket left me without any ingredients I could use to make my initial planned Eton Mess or baked apple crumble. I was at a loss and grabbed the few things I recognised – I would attempt and fail (after half an hour whisking egg whites to produce flat gloopy swamp like creation rather than ‘soft peaks’ of white) to make meringues.

Think, Kerrence, think! You’re wearing an apron, you must be able to create something!

I set my able assistant to whipping up some cream. I rummaged around the cupboard for an aptly shaped spoon. I stole the mini soup bowls from the table (magically replaced after the lunch feast) and I created a marvel. A perfectly rounded ball of strawberry Hargen Daaz played anchor to a smaller, flatter scoop of vanilla ice cream – also Haagen Daaz. Opposite this little bundle of joy was dolloped a spoon full of whipped cream. Atop this cream was expertly and artfully placed slithers of carefully sliced snickers bars – adding both texture and variation, I thought. I had created a masterpiece and stood back to admire my work.

You’d think this creation was the best thing anyone’s ever made! My hosts were delighted and so was I! I refreshed bowls, nodded when they nodded, smiled (the conquering chef) and pretended I didn’t understand when the intimation was that I had made the Ice Cream myself! I’ll let them believe that!