A relationship sealed with dumpling dough

I know two things that I'll be asked to do every year to amuse my fiance's family during Spring Festival.

One is light the fireworks, the other is make jiaozi or dumplings.

Fireworks, I have no problems with. Pyrotechnics I can bend to my will, and make them perform as they should.

Dumplings, however, are another story.

When I think of dumplings, I envision little balls floating on top of a rich, hearty stew. Sometimes, I conjure up the image of dumplings in a sweet syrup. Even potato gnocchi in a creamy sauce comes to mind.

Chinese dumplings don't fit into those categories, with their payload of filling in a thin dough casing.

They shouldn't be such a hard task. I've made ravioli before, and that's the same idea Except that ravioli's made with a form or mold, and not judged by eye.

That's where I seem to go wrong.

I can make the filling for dumplings, that's not a problem. Chopping and mincing the meat, prawns and vegetables, stirring them together - all of that I can handle.

Even the dough for the wrappers is straightforward - it's not as tricky as brioche or even bread dough. I just can't form them up.

My fiance's family gathers around the table to watch my struggles. On occasions, they've invited their friends, just to make sure no one's missing out on what must surely be the show of the year.

First I roll out the dough into long strips, and pinch off the right amount for a wrapper. I take the little lump of dough, form it into a circle with the rolling pin, place it in the palm of my hand And the theatrics begin.

With the wrapper in my left hand, I take up a pair of chopsticks in my right, and try to gauge just how big a lump of filling I need. I drop the filling into the wrapper and start to try and fold it.

While I'm pinching along the edge of the dumpling, the filling is being forced away from the seam. The more I work it, the thinner one end is, while the other end bulges. The dumpling looks like a ball with a fringe of dough on the outside. Of course, if I put too little filling in the wrapper, I end up with a sausage shaped dumpling that's all dough.

All the while, I can feel several sets of eyes glued to my every move. I swear I can hear the faint start of a giggle. Sweat forms on my brow, my concentration is so fierce.

Neither of my two dumplings comes even close to the perfect form of their companions. While I am struggling with the two, everyone else has made about a dozen or so each, and I'm starting to feel like I've missed out on some really big secret somewhere along the line.

There must be classified dumpling schools across China, where pupils are given extensive coaching in how to fold the perfect dumpling, with exactly the right amount of filling in it. The graduates of these schools are forbidden to share their knowledge with foreigners, on pain of having their folding fingers twisted like dough!

Why do I think that? Because every time I ask for help, I'm told that I'm doing ok. But I know I'm not!

I've resorted to watching cooking shows, browsing recipe sites, and even practicing with Play-Doh.

This year, I thought I'd finally broken the curse of the funny shaped dumpling, but it didn't matter. I discovered that despite what my dumplings look like, I'm part of my fiance's family - forever.

And that's the most important thing that I've learned about Chinese dumplings: They bring people together no matter what.