So, I got this itch, you know? A real craving for some decent gyoza. And then, like these things often go, my brain went, “Hey, if you’re making gyoza, why not just go full throttle and tackle some dim sum too?” Sounded like a brilliant plan on a Tuesday afternoon. Famous last words, right?
Getting Started – The Grand Illusion of Simplicity
First off, the shopping. You’d think minced pork, cabbage, spring onions, ginger, garlic, soy sauce, sesame oil – basic stuff. But then you remember the wrappers. Oh, the wrappers. Gyoza wrappers are one thing, usually round and manageable. But for the dim sum – I was vaguely aiming for something like shumai – you need those thinner, often yellower, square-ish ones. Finding the right kind, not too thick, not too dry, that was a little adventure in itself. I swear, I spent more time staring at packages of dough in the Asian supermarket than I did picking out my last car.
Then came the prep. Chopping. So. Much. Chopping. Finely minced this, finely diced that. My kitchen counter started looking like a warzone pretty quick. Cabbage needed salting and squeezing – who knew cabbage held that much water? It’s like trying to wring out a dishrag that just won’t quit. My hands were aching before I even got to the mixing part.
The Gyoza Saga – Folding My Patience Thin
Making the gyoza filling wasn’t too bad, actually. Threw all the chopped bits into a bowl with the pork, splashed in the seasonings. Got my hands in there and gave it a good squish. Felt pretty chef-like for a moment. The real test, the mountain I had to climb, was the folding. This is where things got real.
- Put a dollop of filling in the center.
- Wet the edge.
- Fold and pleat.
Sounds easy, doesn’t it? My first few attempts looked less like elegant crescents and more like sad, lumpy little accidents. Some were too fat, some burst open. I was getting flashbacks to trying to learn how to tie my shoelaces as a kid – sheer frustration. I must’ve watched about five different videos on “how to pleat gyoza perfectly” and mine still looked like they were styled by a toddler. But, you persist, right? Eventually, I got into a sort of rhythm. They weren’t beautiful, mind you, but they were sealed. Mostly.
Cooking them was the reward. Pan-fry till the bottoms are golden and crispy, add some water, slap a lid on to steam, then fry a bit more. That sizzle and the smell? Heavenly. That part, at least, went according to plan.
Dim Sum Dreams – The Shumai Shuffle
Alright, gyoza done (or at least, a pile of them were sitting there, judging my earlier efforts). Time for the dim sum. I decided to try my hand at a basic pork and shrimp shumai. More chopping, of course. The filling felt a bit stickier, more delicate.
Now, the shumai wrappers. These are often thinner and you’re meant to form them into a sort of open-topped cup around the filling. If gyoza folding was tricky, this was its own special kind of fiddly. You squeeze the base, trying to make it compact, while keeping the top open and a bit frilly. My first few looked like lopsided, overstuffed… well, never mind what they looked like. They definitely weren’t going to win any beauty contests. I remember thinking, the folks in those dim sum restaurants make it look so effortless. It’s a lie. It’s all a beautifully orchestrated lie, honed by years of practice.
Steaming them was straightforward enough. Lined the steamer with some cabbage leaves (a tip I picked up somewhere to stop sticking), popped them in, and hoped for the best. They puffed up a bit, looked a little more presentable once cooked, thankfully.
The Aftermath and the “Why Bother?”
So, there I was, hours later, kitchen looking like a flour-and-pork-based explosion had occurred. Mountains of dishes. And two plates of homemade gyoza and shumai. Were they perfect? Absolutely not. Some gyoza were a bit wonky, some shumai a little lopsided. Would I serve them at a fancy dinner party? Probably not the first batch, anyway.
But here’s the thing. They tasted pretty darn good. Way better than some frozen stuff you buy. And there’s a certain satisfaction, isn’t there? In making something from scratch, even if it’s a bit of a struggle. It’s like that one time I decided to build a bookshelf from raw timber instead of a flat-pack. Took me three times as long, it wasn’t perfectly square, but every time I looked at it, I thought, “I made that.”
This whole gyoza and dim sum adventure? Same deal. It’s a reminder that sometimes the process, the learning, the sheer bloody-mindedness of finishing what you started, is just as important as the end result. Plus, now I have a freezer full of slightly imperfect, but lovingly made, dumplings. And that’s not a bad outcome for a Tuesday afternoon idea, even if it did take over most of the day and half my sanity.