I took a walk this afternoon to enjoy the warmer temperatures and decided to stop by Whole Foods to see what was on sale. Among sunchokes, mangoes, and buckwheat flour, I also picked up a whole heavy head of cabbage. I realize that since I’ve moved to New York, I’ve probably only purchased cabbage once, and it was to make a dumpling filling, not to eat it on its own. I brought it home, chopped it up, and stir fried it with garlic, Sichuanese peppercorns, Thai chilies, and a little soy sauce and Chinese black vinegar. It was a modified version of my mom’s stir-fried cabbage growing up. Sometimes, she’d stir-fry it with a little pork or dried shrimp, while other times, she’d simply add garlic, salt, and pepper to it. Regardless, when I took a bite tonight despite my minor additions, it was a familiar flavor, one that reminded me of eating dinners at our dinner table in that house atop a San Francisco hill. It’s a simple and humble dish — nothing fancy and nothing to jump up and down about, but the familiarity is comforting to me (and the added benefit is that after reading How Not to Die, I realized exactly how good cabbage is for you, especially the red kind!).
Today’s generation of parents complain and say they have no time to cook for their kids, which is how they justify giving their kids fast food, buying takeout many days of the week, among other junk food that isn’t particularly varied or nutritious. The thought stresses me out, too; when I come home from a long day at work, the last thing I really want to do is cook a full meal. That’s why most of the cooking I do is on the weekends, but the downside of that is that we end up eating most of the same food repetitively during the week, which also isn’t really what I want my future kids to do (and I’m sure they would whine). I wonder how I will balance all that in my own life. But because I associate stir-fried cabbage with my mom, I wonder if she ever really thought of the concept of “balance,” or if for her, it was just a given that she’d have to deal with two jobs — her paid work as well as raising two kids and running a household. My dad made his meatloaves and five-spiced chicken and baked “fried” chicken more as hobbies rather than to put food on the table; my mom’s goal was more practical: dinner on the table ASAP. I wonder if she ever resented my dad for never doing more around the house or cooking meals, or expecting her to prepare the majority of what we ate. I have a feeling if I ever asked this, she would not respond well.
A fond repeated memory I have is of the days when I’d see my mom eating something different than Ed and me, and I’d look over at her dish and ask what she’s eating.
“Leftovers,” she’d respond, mid-mouthful.
“Leftovers? You mean yesterday’s salmon?”
She’d nod.
“It smells different, though,” I’d say.
“I added nuoc mam (Vietnamese fish sauce) to it,” she’d say.
“Can I have some?” I’d ask.
“Yvonne, you eat your food I cooked. This food is old, and I don’t want you to eat old leftovers.” She’s getting annoyed at this point and just wants me to eat my food and shut up.
“But you’re eating the leftovers. Why can’t I eat them, too?” I’d ask.
“Because your mommy doesn’t want to waste food, and someone needs to eat it. Just eat your food.”
“Can I have some of yours? Please? It looks good.” Somehow, she always made her “old” food look good. And in my eyes and nose, it always seemed to smell and taste better than what was on my plate.
She’d stop eating and smile, like her heart was melting that I wanted to eat the “old” food when she wanted me to eat the “new” food. “Well, the nuoc mam does make everything taste better,” she’d say. And she’d proceed to add a few spoonfuls of her food into my dish.
Everyone has happy memories of their childhood. This is one of mine.
