Nothing Can Prepare You for Birth—But Try Making Wontons

In The Fourth Trimester, we ask parents: What meal nourished you after welcoming your baby? This month it’s freezer-friendly wontons from doctor and cookbook author Betty Liu.

I have always been a planner. So when I became pregnant, I planned as I always do: systematically, with lists and checkboxes. I learned about all the trials of breastfeeding; I had a little kit for postpartum care; I bought a variety pack of pacifiers and onesies in all sizes. And given Emmett’s breech position, I was even able to plan a scheduled C-section.

When I shared this with a friend, she said I was “nesting.” Per old wives’ tales, nesting is a phenomenon that happens near the end of gestation: a maternal instinct to prepare for birth. This can manifest in cleaning, setting up the nursery, or organizing clothes. It’s often a tongue-in-cheek way of predicting impending labor. Ooh, you’re vacuuming up a storm? Baby is coming! As a physician, I scoffed at this. I was simply doing what I always did: plan.

Then one day in my late third trimester, I decided to make wontons. This itself isn’t new: I make wontons regularly. Feeling like a balloon, I eventually roused enough to head to the store and buy a variety of ingredients—pork, shrimp, lamb, Chinese celery, shepherd’s purse, cabbage, potato, and, of course, stacks of wonton wrappers.

I put on Schitt’s Creek, mixed up multiple fillings, and set about and making rows and rows of ingot-shaped wontons. I lined them up, one by one, on a parchment-lined baking sheet, ready for freezing. It wasn’t until I used up all four baking sheets in my possession that I realized something was a little different this time.

Usually, I’d make about 60 wontons, which would nicely fill two baking sheets. But I ended up with hundreds of them. How? It was as if I were waking from a dream. In fact, my streaming service had asked me several times aif I was still watching. And based on the starch-dusted “next” button on my remote, I clearly chose to continue. Hours had passed.

I shook off my wonton-induced fugue state, sat back, and acknowledged: Okay, I may have nested after all. And I liked it. I felt deeply rested, thoroughly accomplished. I gave a few bags of wontons away as gifts, knowing they would bring comfort (and because I didn’t have enough freezer space).

Emmett was born on a wintry morning in the middle of a snowstorm. It was immediately clear that, no matter how much I prepared, we were unprepared. Thankfully, my mother had flown in a week earlier and stayed for a month. She brought not only her favorite steaming pot, a frozen pack of her signature zongzi, and books from my childhood, but also all the comfort and relief of being cared for.

She cooked foods traditionally meant to support postpartum moms: millet porridge with dates, silver sweet fermented rice wine soup with poached egg, black chicken broth. She helped soothe the baby. She cleaned. She was my lifeline.

When she left on a bitingly cold February day, I felt a wave of helplessness and despair. She got into her Uber as I watched, with Emmett strapped to my chest in a sling, bundled up with his pink cheeks and button nose showing. It was just him and me for the remainder of my maternity leave.

I had visions for this time: the baby sleeping peacefully while I napped or showered or cooked. Maybe I’d even squeeze in some writing, as I was working on my manuscript for my cookbook The Chinese Way. But I was so humbled by this 10-pound crying potato. I found myself wolfing down any leftovers while pacing with the sling to coax him to sleep. In the 20-minute naps he took, I rushed to complete tasks. Then one day, when I opened the freezer to see what I had, there they were: rows and rows of wontons.

I threw them in soup and tossed them with the most basic of sauces. I even had a menu to choose from: pork and shrimp; pork and shepherd’s purse; potato and cumin lamb. Every bite was filled with warmth and umami, encased in a chewy skin. More importantly, it was a protein-rich meal, prepared from freezer to bowl, in about 15 minutes.

In my sleep-deprived postpartum haze, I thanked the recess of my mind that had urged me to do my version of nesting, a gift from me to me. With every wonton I ate, I felt not only nourished, but optimistic: I am eating, I am okay.