The soup connects me not only to my family but also to generations of cooks, dating back to the Han dynasty before us, who perfected this craft. At that time, all noodles were called “cake,” and noodles in soup were called “soup cake” (Zhang and Ma). In the 4,000 years since, each region in China has developed their own version of beef noodle soup. For instance, there’s Fushan hand-pulled noodles from the Shandong province, flat noodles from the Anhui province, Henan stewed noodles from the Henan province, and dan dan noodles from the Sichuan province, with each telling the unique story of its homeland (Zhang and Ma). The first time I had my mother’s beef noodle soup, I didn’t think much about what went into the bowl. Over time, I realized how much labor, patience, and love were stirred into that soup. Surprisingly, the simple-seeming broth is actually complex, made using “ginger, Sichuan peppercorn, cinnamon, star anise, and at least a dozen other spices” (Krishna). These ingredients seemed ordinary alone, but they created something magical in combination: first the bright kick of ginger, then the mumbling tingle of peppercorns, and finally the comforting aromatic smell from the star anise. Still, my favorite part of making this dish is the noodles themselves because the art of hand-pulling them always fascinated me. I used to watch my mother twist and stretch the dough, her fingers dancing with practiced rhythm. In some restaurants, you had to knead the dough 900 times before it could be pulled to make noodles (Ho). For me, the process was almost meditative, and though my attempts were clumsy, it taught me about patience. In every pull, there was care; in every bowl, history. 

When I eat beef noodle soup today, the flavor instantly brings me back to those early kitchen memories. Yet it feels a little different now. The laughter that once echoed in our cozy home has quieted. My mother (who splits her time between Canada and China) and I (who now call Ann Arbor home) have our shared meals turned into occasional phone calls and photos of what we’re cooking. Like the version I most recently had in Ann Arbor, it still reminds me of home, but something was lacking. What made those early experiences special wasn’t just the food; it was the people, the shared warmth, the laughter between slurps and noodles. For instance, Lanzhou beef noodles tells a story of migration and belonging and shows how dishes can hold entire histories (Krishna). I think that’s why it resonates so deeply with me. This is a dish born of necessity and love, fused with history and intention, reminding me and every Chinese person of our roots. Every element has meaning. The broth represents time due to simmering for hours, allowing each spice to reveal itself slowly. The noodles represent effort because each strand is shaped by hand and memory. The beef represents tenderness, made soft by broth cooking and care. When I finally sit down and take that first bite, it’s as if the past and present of both my family traditions and cultural roots meet in one spoonful.