The title is M.’s spelling, which I’m kind of questioning, which is extremely obnoxious of me. His version is pretty much the Hokkien spelling, but I’ve also seen “Kung Hei Fat Choi” lying around, and Wikipedia gives it as Keong hee huat chye. You hear a lot more of the old Cantonese or Hakka, I think because there’s a lot more of them, Gung hei faat coi, Gong hee fatt choi.

Anyway, the point is, I hope you all have luck and prosperity and what not out there in both the English-speaking and the rest of the world for the lunar new year.

When I met good old M., I never heard him mention the whole Chinese thing much. Of course, he copped to it, it wasn’t like he was lying or passing or some crazy thing. But, he’s always pretty future dreaming, so it didn’t come up. I didn’t test him at the time, but I swear to god or gods or ancient ancestors, he wouldn’t have had any fucking idea what day Chinese New Year was that year.

I never heard him speak Chinese until he called his mother from my house the minute we found out about the tsunami in December 2004.

But, now, dear M. is a homeowner. And, it’s a kick ass, rocking, beach-y, California rancher with good light, an airy feel and some space to spread out for a party with some intimacy thrown into the mix. This year, his year as a Tiger in the Chinese zodiac, he decided a party must be had.

In truth, the party was merely a delivery system for M. getting his fill of a roasted pig.

He ordered that and piles and piles of other food that he likes. The guests were an excuse to not be gluttonous, I think. Actually, they brought food and wine, too. We were hoping to make a dent in drinking our bottles of wine; we netted more bottles. We’re suffering an embarrassment of riches good food-wise. If only I was better in touch with my inner alcoholic.

In the ethnic spirit, I did get my fill of Singapore’s Tiger beer. At the ancestral neighborhood of Braintree, I’d say Bud or Bud Light was the party-sipping beer of choice, but Tiger may very well be ahead in easy drinkability.

I’d been teasing M. that he was only having the party for the pig all week. It was actually confirmed by our friends who are also from the small subset of Penang-born Chinese diaspora living in the Bay Area. Sally, whose husband Peter hatched the idea of ordering the roasted pig and having a party, had pretty much spent the same span laughing about the same food focus above actual party planning.

Appropriate to living in a beach town, the party came in waves. There were about three separate parties, when you look at the peaks. Almost every glass in the house was used, and I have a cubic buttload of glasses, but only one was broken in my clean up. I think counting kids there were about 38-40 folks.

I should have taken more pictures, especially of the spread, but you can see just the snacks were ample.

I’ll tell you what, though, when it comes to food, the Chinese can party it up hardcore. Not only did we already have tables full of food, but most of the people with Chinese roots brought more. The Chongs outdid everyone with one rice cooker of Malaysian-style sticky rice, another of the dessert pulat hitam, aka black glutinous rice with coconut milk, a large pot of chicken curry, another of turkey gizzards, which I’m sure has a better, more delicious-sounding name, and a box of oranges from their tree, keeping the tradition of handing off oranges on New Year’s alive and well and prosperous. Others brought sesame balls, more oranges, candy, wine, more sesame balls and cookies.

One of M.’s co-workers brought a friend from Malaysia, who dove into the spread like the ultimate cure for homesickness. She was fun to talk with about the homeland, since she seemed surprised that a full-on white chick from the hinterlands of Braintree, could be so hip to the local cuisine and customs. I’m practically an international bon fucking vivant and raconteur. Practically.

This next statement probably only applies to me, or lives in my head in a way I won’t be able to explain well enough to make sense outside of my head. When I look at those party pictures, I have a hard time realizing that this thing that I am currently enmeshed in is my own life I’m living. I mean that I am from Braintree. More specifically, Braintree in the 1960s, 70s and 80s. It had exactly two ethnic groups of which I was aware, and I’m not even sure they are technically ethnically distinct; there were Irish Catholics, and there were Italian Catholics. Sure the town has Protestant churches and a Jewish synagogue, but the predominance of the other two groups swamped them beyond recognition.

In school, we were all born nearby, mostly in Boston. John Feldman would be asked to give a report about driedls or menorahs in the winter. Kathy Yuskauskas would speak up about how Lithuania wasn’t “Russia,” even if the Soviets had taken it over. Other than that, diverse we were not. Hell, I even told my kindergarten teacher that my aunt’s would be a “mixed marriage” (with zero understanding of the weight of the words), when she of Irish lineage was planning to marry Italian stock.

But, here, in my house now, it’s California all over the place. At our party, few were born in the neighborhood, in fact only two that I know off the top of my head, and that might still be more like a 40 to 50-mile radius. Just a quick finger tally, and I get maybe eight countries of origin, and not just the Boston notion of Irish (who usually aren’t from Ireland) or Chinese/Oriental, as the name for all of the people with almond eyes from the land of Asia, but actually being born and living elsewhere were representing. After that, there were permutations of self-identity and different kinds of Americans all melting together, as the metaphor goes.

(As a side note, the best thing about knowing folks from elsewhere, the conversations about health care make the U.S. sound crazy.)

Like being in a happy relationship, this ethnic harmony and openness confuses me in a cognitive dissonance kind of way. It wasn’t the life I pictured. It’s a pretty good life, though. It only shows I suck at guessing.

I plan on writing another thing much more entrenched in my own Boston roots later today. I was going to write it here, but it would be a nonsensical segue. So, I will end with a not-at-all-justice-doing photo of my photo collage that now lives in our hallway. Here, M. and me and the families who made our here and now possible are represented. In the interest of space and the fact that my people just don’t do group photos, I left out a lot of important folks on my side. I hope you all know who you are.