These are the dumplings my very extended family made the last time I went to China (try to guess which one was mine). This was at the house of a great aunt/uncle, a branch of my family on my mom’s side who I had never interacted with before, and I don’t know if or when I will ever again. As I was driven back to my grandma’s home, a stomach full of dumplings and pockets one red envelope heftier, funnily enough, my disfigured and misshapen dumpling aside, I realized that they tasted extraordinarily similar to the dumplings my mom made, making me retroactively feel at home in a place that was not my home, but in a sense, still my home. Does that even make sense?