**New Year's Eve, 1997**
I spent Lunar New Year's Eve at Li Fang's house.
When she first invited me, I hesitated.
*It's reunion night*, I thought. *What if I ruin the atmosphere?*
But Li Fang insisted: *"My father asked for you."*
I was stunned. Last month, when I'd gone for the preserved pork tongue, her dad had barely spoken between bites. I'd assumed I'd spoiled his appetite. Yet here was another chance.
*"That's just how he is,"* Li Fang said. *"Impulsive, stubborn outside but soft inside. He claims he'll never approve of us, yet he respects my choices. Otherwise, would I have dared bring you home right after prison?"*
Then, conspiratorially: *"Buy two packs of Hongtashan cigarettes. His favorite. And get Mom honey—she thinks it's too expensive to buy herself."*
So on New Year's Eve, I arrived bearing two red cartons of Hongtashan and a jar of golden honey.
The effect was instant.
Her father glanced up from the TV, gave an approving *"Hn,"* and pointed at the cigarettes with mock sternness.
*"Yes, Uncle,"* I said quickly, offering them. *"Happy New Year."*
*"Good, good. Sit."*
I gestured toward the kitchen. *"I brought something for Auntie too."*
*"Go on then. Come back after—we'll watch TV."*
In the kitchen, I set the honey by the cutting board. *"A customer at the restaurant was selling wild honey. I thought you might like some."*
Her mother gasped. *"Look at that clarity! Is this—"*
*"Acacia blossom,"* I supplied.
*"Of course! This needs refrigeration."* She beamed. *"Such extravagance just for dinner!"*
As she bustled to the fridge, I caught Li Fang's eye across the chopping board. Her grin said: *Told you it'd work.*
Dinner was six dishes and a soup. The braised pork knuckle, sliced thin, was sublime. Li Fang piled my bowl high until her father gruffly interjected: *"Eat something. Drinking on an empty stomach hurts the gut."*
Then came the liquor test.
Her father produced a bottle of baijiu, slid two cups across the table, and asked in awkward English: *"Can you drink?"*
I pinched thumb and forefinger: *"A little."*
My "little" must've looked generous—his eyes lit up. *"That's four ounces!"*
He poured until the liquor formed a trembling meniscus above the rim. To lift my cup without spilling, I had to sip like a cat lapping milk.
*This man is a professional*, I realized.
We clinked glasses—my two hands lowering my cup a respectful inch below his. Three rounds later, the television's (Spring Festival Gala) melodies wrapped around us, the anchorman's voice weaving through our laughter.
And just like that, I was no longer a guest, but family.