Making them wasn’t just cooking. It was an art form.

The eggroll wraps would come stuck together in a tight stack, and before anything else, they had to be carefully peeled apart one by one. That was usually where my sister and I came in. We’d stand at the counter helping our mom separate the delicate wrappers without tearing them. It sounds simple, but even that required patience. Then came the real test: rolling. The eggroll had to be a certain size. Tightly wrapped. Evenly filled. Never lopsided Sealed just right. It had to be “pretty.” Mom approved. My sister caught on quickly. By her early twenties, she had it down…smooth, tight, perfectly shaped eggrolls that earned immediate approval. Me? It took a little longer. Actually… a lot longer. I didn’t get “mom approved” on my rolling until I was in my thirties. Before that, she would glance at mine, politely quiet… and then wait for my sister to show up to help with the real wrapping. I’d be standing there fully available, and somehow I’d still end up on wrapper-peeling duty. We laugh about that now.

Our mom is in heaven, but this is one of the memories my sister and I come back to often; how serious she was about the shape, the tightness, the presentation. How she would inspect them like they were pieces of art. How I had to earn my way into being trusted with the final roll. It wasn’t just about how they looked. It was about doing it right.