Mo:mos–Nepali dumplings. Photo: Food Network
In Nepal, dumplings aren’t simply dumplings. They’re mo:mos. Mo:mos have a special significance for me: I don’t think about the mo:mos themselves, but the friends who I’ve known since high school, the football games we’d play after school before going to a mo:mo shop, a girlfriend I used to go with after school on my motor-bike. Mo:mo shops in Nepal are simple. We would usually know all the servers and call them “dai,”an amicable word for “brother.” They would smile back and say “Aaja pani?”—today too? And we’d say—“Ah dai. Sadhai.”—yes, brother. Always.
The shops were small and cozy. Every day, we would be there at the same time. And, not to our surprise, so were other students. We’d indirectly get to know the regular customers at the shop, communicating with good natured nods, smiles, and gestures. Sometimes, people we knew would be visiting the shop, not knowing that we were there. There were hundreds of unplanned encounters, resulting in laughter, joy, and hours after hours of merry-making.
I have been to Nepal every summer since I came to Howard University in the United States, three years ago. Most of my old friends are still there, and I run into them at the dumpling shop. My friends smile, knowingly, and say, “koi ta bhetincha sure thio yar. Aija bas.”—I knew I’d find someone here, bud. Come sit down. And then we’d sit together, sharing our stories since the day we parted. It doesn’t matter where we’ve gone or been in life, we always manage to come back to the same place—our mo:mo shop. My family is still in Nepal, and sometimes they come with me, too.
The main feature that makes these mo:mos special is the sauce. Each restaurant has its own sauce, usually devised by the owners, usually a secret recipe. At my home, I, along with my mother and the rest of my family, have attempted to create our own type of special sauce, and at one moment, it was pretty good. We invited some of our family members, including my cousins and uncle, for a mo:mo tasting. They appreciated the creativity and joked that we should sell the sauce’s recipe to a mo:mo shop.
I have lots of family memories of making mo:mos, because it’s an elaborate process. We mince the ingredients of the filling together– meat, vegetables, and in some cases, nuts and paneer. Then, we have to wrap them intricately with a special type of dumpling wrap. After that, we put them in a steamer for about an hour. The waiting game is interesting. For about an hour, we sit in the kitchen, talking, waiting, anticipating the delight when the mo:mos are finally ready, when we can take what I think of as little packets of love outside, put them on a plate, and enjoy them as a family. It’s not just the mo:mo that is important, it is the entire ritual. They bring the entire family together.
At Howard University in Washington, D.C., we get together in the same way. Only one person needs to add a message on the group chat, something like, “Is anybody up for mo:mo?” Within an hour, we start a project. Around ten people gather, out of the 30 in our group. Each person is designated a certain task– preparing the minced meat, rolling the dumplings up with the wrapping, cleaning up, or, for the more laid back ones, relaxing in the background, keeping the mo:mo makers company. The feeling that comes out of this experience which is very similar to the one I have at home, while making mo:mos with my family — I togetherness, warmth, and family.
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