Monthly Archives: September 2025

Is Convenience Worth the Last Drop?

By Mikaela Gee, age 16, New York.

As we walk from the sea to earth, along paths carved by rapids long ago,
It was Mother Nature’s tears that nourished and raised—
Our bodies, our cells, our kin who’ve begun,
To shape the earth with a boundless run.

And yet, we have forgotten our mother,
Who raised us through countless years.
Her lifeblood, pure and versatile,
Now depleted, unwaveringly so.
She gives us the sweetest fruits to savor,
Irrigates our crops to yield golden wheat,
And builds the grand towers that power our homes.
Yet we poison her roots, her veins,
Choking the motor, seizing the reins.
Our pipes leak lacquered oil into her seas,
From which we fish, then we eat.
Steel succumbs, its strength turned frail by decay,
Her hands unearth truths time cannot betray,
Empires crumble, bound by nature’s say.

And so I call upon you—
My peers, future generations, and past:
Let us pause and remember: the taste of water, sweet and crisp.
The refreshing rain that quenches earth’s thirst.
Without water, no harvest will grow,
No forests, no flowing seas—no us.

Let us act before time discreetly seeps away,
With hands that halt the careless streams,
And choices that honor the gift we’ve known—
So the rhythm of life may endlessly flow,
So that our cups will always be filled to the brim.

By Mikaela Gee, age 16, Chinese-Malaysian, New York. Mikaela explores life’s complexities through quiet reflection, capturing universal emotions in still moments—like gazing out a car window at the world rushing by. She’s eager to share her voice and connect with readers, blending personal introspection with themes that resonate widely. Expect to see more of her poems in near future.

Monsoon Rains

By Adhya Kidiyoor, 14, Texas, and Maira Khwaja, 13, Texas.

The steady, gentle pour of the rain
The hot steam spiraling from the cup in my hands
The soft creaking of the wooden swing beneath me
This takes me back to where I belong
This takes me home.

I linger there for a while, trying hard to piece myself back together

The thunder booms, shaking the rain-soaked earth, scattering my broken thoughts across the mossy ground.

The swing freezes midair.
My chai loses its last warmth.
Time seems to stand still.

Who am I?
I’m a girl who’s lost.
A girl in the glorious shower of rain
A girl remembering the soft, familiar canopy of past days
A girl falling apart in the monsoon, not yet ready to let it go.

A girl who longs to go back.

Sitting here without the warmth of my home, I feel so small.
Alone.

Lightning flashes, and for a moment, everything seems clear.

I breathe again, as the rain grows heavier and heavier
As the burden I carry feels lighter and lighter

I listen, for once, as the murmurs of life grow smaller and smaller
And the depths of my clarity grow deeper and deeper

I pause, in wonder as the tiny insignificant raindrop becomes a brilliant shower—
Something bigger.

The rain grows stronger, the steady stream washing away my confusion
For the first time, I can see clearly.

Alone, I would be swept away, just another raindrop swept away in the current
But I don’t have to be alone

The stories of pride and joy, so achingly familiar, keep me warm.
The whispered tales, so fondly believed, keep me company.
These are my roots.
This is my culture.

The rain fades away, as all moments must.
But I can find solace in this memory
I can find clarity in this moment
And in the rain, I find not just my answer but myself.

I am not just a drop, but part of a storm.
I am not just a person, but part of a nation.

I am not just a girl, but the spirit of what makes India beautiful.
And that is all I need.

* * * *

Somewhere between that last sip of chai and the weight of the rain, I stopped worrying and began to listen. The rain didn’t just fall—it spoke, in a language older than our names, dialogue that can be felt and heard. It tells me, tells all of us, that home isn’t always a place, but a scent, a story, or the rhythm our footsteps carve and the droplets copy. And sometimes, the storm doesn’t break you. Sometimes, it brings you back home.

* * * *

The steady fall of the rain
counters the frantic
thumping of my heart.

I am surrounded by the scent
of moss and earth
and all things green with life.

It was a dry period,
one without the flourish of nature
and the embrace of home.

But
monsoon
is coming soon.

I now sit on the swing
that has swayed the same since I was six—regardless of storm or season.

The sky weeps a wretched cry,
hungry to drown all that is familiar.

I must remind myself
this brutal storm is nothing new.

And the lifeless land will be ruined only momentarily—
hard and loveless destruction giving way to plentiful earth.

For days, the skies will wail
and the clouds will darken,
closing their weepy eyes.

I wonder if this storm will ever pass.

But
monsoon
comes every year.

So by now, I must know
the storm will waver eventually—
desperate, darkened skies shutting their curtains

to reveal the calm of the sun
the soft of verdant grass
And the saffron and marigold of the ripe aam
That I have been waiting for.

My little swing continues to rock
and the rain continues to fall
but I continue to breathe
Because the skies have promised

To epilogue into vibrant
orange, white and green,
that fills me with the spirit of India,
alive in every drop of rain.

Written jointly by Adhya Kidiyoor, and 14, Texas, and Maira Khwaja, age 13, Texas.

Adhya loves staying active—especially in the world of literature! Whether it’s volunteering, competing in Science Olympiad, or practicing tennis, she’s always doing something. When she’s not on the move, you’ll find her reading, listening to music, or working on her next big idea. She’s curious, motivated, and always up for a new challenge.

Maira has a passion for learning and creativity. She enjoys writing poetry, reading, and spending time outdoors. When she’s not volunteering with nonprofits, she’s either listening to music or practicing karate.

The Global Wildlife Center

By Keren He, age 16, grade 10, Louisiana.

In Louisiana’s heart, a lush embrace,
A sanctuary sprawls, a wild, open space.
The Global Wildlife Center, a haven graced,
Where creatures roam free, their freedom traced.

Nine hundred acres, a vast expanse,
Where wild hearts freely roam and dance.
A thousand beings grace this grand land,
In harmony, they live as if by chance.

Safari wagons roll through verdant terrain,
As guides share tales that educate and entrain.
Of habitats lost and efforts to sustain,
Of balance restored, new life to regain.

Zebras with stripes like an artist’s brush,
Kangaroos hop with a playful rush.
Giraffes bend low, their touch gentle, plush,
Camels sway by, their steps soft as hush.

Ostriches dart beneath the azure sky,
Emus stride through, their gait never shy.
Bison show strength as they wander by,
Antelopes leap, so graceful and spry.

Conservation’s call rings clear and true,
As visitors learn what they can do.
To protect these wonders, both old and new,
For future generations to cherish, too.

The Center stands tall, a beacon for all,
A refuge, a teacher, heeding nature’s call.
So come one, come all, let your spirit soar,
In this sanctuary of life—forevermore.

By Keren He, age 16, grade 10, Louisiana.

King of the Soup Dumplings: Yang Bing-Yi

By Fanny Wong, New York.

During the Chinese civil war in 1948, Yang Bing-Yi was an ambitious 21-year-old man. He decided to leave his home in southern China and embark on a new life. With only $20 in his pocket, Bing-Yi stepped into a boat to escape the war. He worried whether the rickety boat would make it to Taipei, the capital of Taiwan.

The boat arrived safely and Bing-Yi’s life changed.

He met and married a young woman, Lai Pen-Mei. They started a new business together.

Young and hard-working, the couple sold cooking oil in glass bottles. This supported their growing family, until oil in tins became popular and business slowed.

Bing-Yi worried. What else could he do to support his growing family? His education was disrupted when Japanese troops occupied China. Without a good education, he still could work hard and make something of himself. He started another business.

He recalled he had learned how to make noodles from relatives. That was something he did rather well. So he opened a store to sell noodles.

He made very good noodles. Business was brisk but there was a lot of competing noodle makers. What could he do to bring in more customers? How could his noodles stand out? He had no idea. Then a loyal customer encouraged him to make something else, a soup dumpling (Xiao Long Bao) that was popular in China.

“At first,” Bing-Yi explained. “I knew nothing about the skills of making dumplings, but I set out to learn.”

He had a lot to learn!

First, he created the soup with pork bones. Then he mixed the filling of pork, water, minced ginger, and then seasoned it with soy sauce and pepper.

The flour dough was easy to make. Bing-Yi rolled out each piece to a round disc about 3 inches in diameter.

The challenge was how to fill the dough with soup. He formed it into a pouch, but the soup was too thin. It didn’t stay inside.

He experimented and experimented with the dough. It was either too thick or too thin. Even when the dough was just right, nothing worked. But he persisted and came to the conclusion that the problem could not be the consistency of the dough.

He started to experiment with the soup.

He boiled chicken and pig bones for a long time until the soup was gelatin-like, which was easier to handle than liquid soup. He filled the soup gelatin into the pouch and pinched it close, making pleats on top. When he steamed the dumplings in a wok, the gelatin soup melted. Viola! Soup filled dumpling! After so many trials, he had found the solution!

The aroma made Bing-Yi’s mouth water. He waited impatiently for the dumplings to be cooked. He lifted the wok cover to check on the progress frequently. Finaly, dumplings were ready. He poked a hole on the top of a dumpling to let out the steam. He bit first into the skin, then delicately slurped up the hot soup. He closed his eyes to savor the soup and the filling. An explosion of flavors and texture! Delicious! His customers would love it.

Word of mouth from appreciative customers brought more people that overflowed his store front. In 1972, at age of 45, Bing-Yi took a bold step and opened his first restaurant in Taipei, Taiwan. He named it Din Tai Fung. He chose those words because din means a cooking vessel and tai fung mean peace and abundance. It was an auspicious name for a restaurant that would open branches first in Tokyo, then in Arcadia, California, and then in New York City.

Each restaurant uses the same high standard, down to the diameter of the dough and the weight of each soup dumpling. Each one must weigh 21 grams, about three-quarters of an ounce. Through glass windows in the restaurants, customers can watch the white-uniformed cooks prepare the dumplings in a brightly lit kitchen. They can see the amount of work and the technique of making a soup dumpling. Their consistent high quality of the dumplings and level of service bring new and repeat customers.

In 1993, the New York Times published a feature about the restaurant. In 2010, it received a Michelin Star, a prestigious award to a restaurant offering outstanding cooking. Food tasting experts have raved about the dumplings, spreading the restaurant’s fame far and wide.

In 2023, Yang Bing-Yi passed away at the ripe age of 96. But his two sons continue their father’s legacy, serving the popular Xiao Long Boa in Din Tai Fung restaurants in many cities all over the world.

Two years ago, I visited my brother-in-law in Taipei, Taiwan. He took me to a Din Tai Fung in a shopping mall. We had to take a number and wait on a bench outside. My brother-in-law ordered not only the dumplings, but also small side dishes and a cucumber salad. I still remember how delicious the dumplings were. Surely worth the 30-minute wait!

By Fanny Wong, Chinese American author, New York. Ms. Wong has been a frequent contributor to Skipping Stones Magazine.