January in Ma's backyard: fading-scented roses; a set of woven off-white chairs, each with a broken leg; hummingbirds, hovering over a clump of cotton in a branch of the little potted ficus. The tiniest chilies, later sliced very thin and tossed into a green mango salad served with fried trout, chili lime sauce and shallots sauteed whole. Auntie Meng says those flowers, heavenly when tight-fisted, smell like pee when open-bloomed. Even in January, a parliament of plastic blue-strapped sandals await bare feet.




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