As the siblings settled around the wooden dining table, their father emerged from the kitchen carrying a glazed earthenware bowl adorned with dancing cranes. Steam rose like morning mist from the wild mushroom and chicken soup within, carrying with it the earthy fragrance of fungi gathered from the forest.
Following behind him was their mother, who held a large bamboo steamer basket lined with lotus leaves. Within lay rows of carefully folded jiaozi, their wrappers as thin as autumn frost, betraying the shadows of minced herbs and meat beneath. Each dumpling was pleated with eighteen precise folds—a number of good fortune—and arranged in a pattern that resembling floating clouds.
"Wowwww..." The siblings breathed in unison, their eyes wide as saucers at the feast laid before them.
