Scallion bun (cong you bao) in San Francisco is better than in New York

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Growing up, there are certain Cantonese bakery staples that would be on rotation at home. The most common ones were cha siu bao (Cantonese BBQ pork buns, both the baked and the steamed ones), nai huang bao (egg custard bao), lian rong bao (lotus seed bao) (my grandma’s favorite), occasionally ji wei bao (cocktail / coconut bun), and cong you bao (scallion bun). One of my dad’s absolute favorites was always the twisted scallion bao. There would be an ample sprinkling inside and out of chopped scallions/green onions, plus the bun would be rubbed generously with a lightly seasoned scallion oil. When made correctly, the bao itself was soft, pillowy, and nearly melt in your mouth tender and good. The best ones were like eating air; you had no idea how much you had inhaled until the whole damn twisted bun was gone.

I didn’t realize how good I had it getting Chinese bakery items through my grandma and parents growing up (plus the times when relatives would generously bring over the almost expected pink cardboard boxes of Chinese bakery items) until I moved out on my own – it was all trial and error by my own buying and tasting. When I was going to school in the Boston area, I had to figure out which bakeries were good on my own. The same was the case when I moved to New York. I had to rely on strangers’ reviews on Yelp and Google, plus the occasional word of mouth. Most were hit or miss. To this day, after 21 years of living on the East Coast, and 17 of them spent here in New York City, I can say with sadness that I still have not found a bakery that makes scallion buns as good as the ones I can find in San Francisco.

I was reminded of this when I visited two excellent bakeries in San Francisco this last week. We visited Cherry Blossom Bakery on Clement Street in the Inner Richmond, then Good Mong Kok Bakery, one of my family’s staple SF Chinatown bakeries. Cherry Blossom Bakery has had rave reviews and been on my list a while, but I finally popped in while going to the nearby Kiss of Matcha for my reliable and favorite matcha latte. I chose the scallion bao, which was $2, and whe we brought it home, I realized it was truly perfect. It was exactly as I described above: pillowy and deceptively light, with a rich scallion flavor throughout. It must have been made with an excellent tangzhong, or milk bread base paste. Then a couple days later, we visited Good Mong Kok, which my family has been going to as long as I can remember. They are known for lines out the door and very typical Cantonese (read: yelling/barking and quick) service. I picked up one cha siu bao for Kaia, and one scallion bao for us. The scallion bun was very long and only $2. And it was also super pillowy, almost flaky at the edges, and unbelievably fluffy.

While digging into Good Mong Kok Bakery’s perfect cong you bao, I lamented why I still haven’t found this perfection in New York City across any of the endless Chinese bakeries I’ve visited. Even my most favorite Manhattan Chinatown bakeries don’t come close to this taste or texture. Or worse, they like to add extraneous toppings like sliced hot dog (ugh), Chinese sausage (unnecessary), or other meats. When you have a truly delicious and perfect scallion bun, it needs nothing else other than its perfect dough, scallion oil, and scallions.

Who knows – maybe next year when I come to San Francisco, I may just be desperate enough to buy a bunch in bulk and freeze them to bring back to New York with me…

Kaia’s first day of preschool, and reflections on my child’s developing humor

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Today is Kaia’s first official day of Pre-K, aka 4K, aka preschool, aka the year before official, formal schooling begins for her. We’ve been really fortunate to live in New York City in a time when Universal Pre-K (UPK) has not only been offered, but also because we were lucky enough to get a spot for both 3K and 4K, and at a Chinese immersion school that offers 3.5 fresh meals cooked onsite every day. While she dawdled with breakfast this morning, Kaia was eager to start the day and get into her promised first-day-of-school outfit: her much awaited Ms. Rachel dress, complete with a polka-dotted tutu that Chris got her months ago; I decided that today would be a good momentous occasion to finally let her wear it. Plus, it would likely fit her better at this point since we sized up. We took first-day-of-school photos with her updated letter board from birth, and Chris took her down to Chinatown for her first day in class with Ms. Vicky, her new teacher. Her new Chinese teacher is still to be confirmed.

It’s always a bit bittersweet, these milestone moments in her life. Every day is a gift watching her grow, develop, learn new things, find her likes and dislikes, and become her own person with her own unique personality and quirks. But every day that she gets older and reaches these moments, I know that she’s moving farther and farther away from me. Because that is ultimately the goal of “successful” parenting: getting your child to grow into an independent, self-sufficient adult who no longer “needs” you to survive. Every now and then, I go through old photos and videos on my phone or in our Google Photos, and I re-watch videos of her from a few months ago, a year, two years, three years ago.. even from the minute she was first born. It’s crazy to see how much she’s developed in every single way: her speech development, the clarity of her words in two (sometimes three – Cantonese!) languages; how her limbs have gotten so much longer, how the sweet baby fat on her cheeks, arms, legs, and all her joints has been slowly dissipating. I get nostalgic. Yes, those days were tougher, but my heart was always so full of love and a deep sense of gratitude that I was lucky enough to not only become a mother, but also become a mama to this very cheeky and sweet Kaia Pookie.

A friend of mine who has two kids told me that the one thing she regretted not doing more of with both kids was taking more videos. She says most people focus on photos because they’re easier (and they take less space!), but she said she always loved the sounds her babies made, and also being able to see how their sounds progressed into babble into words and then finally into sentences. So because of what she said, I probably still, to this day, take more videos than I should (if only Google Photos storage was free….) because I hate to think I could actually forget one of these cute or hilarious moments with my Kaia. Some of my absolute favorite videos of her are when she’s simply busting out laughing over something that I don’t quite understand, but because I just adore the sound of her laughter so much, I go along with it. There was a video when I kept encouraging her to “Biiiite. Chew, chew!” And she’d laugh hysterically every time I said “bite,” and then repeat it after me with her high-pitched laugh. Another video that I love is when I did a version of “peek-a-boo” and keep my back towards her. Holding her Habbi Habbi language wand, I’d jump up and say, Haaaabbiiiiiii, HABBI!” And when I’d say the second “Habbi,” I’d jump around to face her with the wand, and she’d crack up almost nonstop; she even slapped her hands together and on the bed multiple times.

I thought about Kaia’s early humor, her “peek-a-boo” excitement, her imitations, her “tricks” on us, and when she now tries to hide things in her one of her palms and wants us to guess which palm has the secret object, all while I was reading this place on “Why Are Kids So Funny?” in The New Yorker this week. The article mentions how babies often wait a month or two to smile, then a couple more to start laughing, “but once the humor gets going, it achieves what A.I. researchers might call a ‘fast takeoff.'” Human beings are distinctive for many reasons, but maybe “the speed with which children embrace humor suggests that it, too, is fundamental to human nature. We laugh, therefore we are.” Humor “allows human beings to find their way into their own humanity and into the human community.” I was reminded of just days ago when at dinner time, Kaia noticed that my mom calls my dad “Cal,” short for “Calvin.” When my mom calls him “Cal,” many people’s ears will register this as “cow” because of her accent, and so Kaia thought this was so funny that she started saying, “Cow, mooo! Cow, cow, go home, cow!” I am not quite sure where the “go home!” part came from, but the “Cal sounds like cow” connection cracked me up. And she said it so many times I lost count. My mom found this funny, while my dad didn’t quite get it and carried on as though he didn’t hear anything.

I love watching my child laugh and be funny, and trying to elicit our own smiles and laughter. I love watching her find her way into her own personality, her own humanity, and finding her way with the people around her. Watching her experience life and grow has definitely made me a better, more empathetic person. It’s honestly hard for me to even imagine life without this little cheeky bubba of mine. And with her, there is most definitely far more humor in my own life, our shared life.

The colander and pictures of JiuJiu around the house

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When we got back to my parents’ house last Friday evening, I saw that my mom had washed and begun cutting a bunch of yu choy. I told her to leave them there and that I’d cook them for us for Saturday dinner. I proceeded to cut the stalks and leaves the way I always do, then blanch in a pot of boiling water with a drizzle of oil, a few shakes of salt. After about a minute, I drained them in the largest stainless steel colander I could find in their kitchen. And even though I have three of my own stainless steel colanders in my kitchen back in New York, there was something about the construction of this deep, rounded colander, the size, quantity, and placement of all the little round holes, that made draining the yu choy almost instant. I watched the water speedily drain out, and there I was left with perfectly cooked yu choy, almost fully drained with a few shakes.

This colander is probably around 25 years old. I still remember it: Ed purchased this piece in the housing wares department at Stonestown Macy’s just shortly after he started working there. Once he began his job at Macy’s in the “domestics” (bedding) section, he basically went through the house to see what could be improved upon, and he chose this colander as one of the first things to buy for the kitchen. To this day, the colander is still in excellent condition, and it functions just as well as I remember it when it was brand new. Our parents’ kitchen still has a number of things Ed bought that they continue to use. Every time I see another one of those pieces, I feel a little more sad that he’s no longer with us. There’s even a set of Lenox Butterfly Meadow crystal flutes that are still sitting in their original box, unused, on a dining room shelf. They match the dessert plates and tea cups that Ed got me for my birthday in January 2012.

On Saturday morning, Kaia kept asking about the pictures on display in the dining room, so I took a lot of the framed photos and after dusting them off, I pointed to the faces and named the people for her. Some of them needed no naming: of course, she immediately recognized Chris’s face and mine, as well as both my parents’. With the younger baby photos, she did need some help. But after a few photos of Ed, she started picking up on him. And when I’d show her subsequent photos of Ed, within a second, she’d say it was her JiuJiu.

It’s hard to believe it’s been over 12 years since Ed died. It’s been 12 years of coming back to this house, knowing that he will never be here to greet me or see me ever again. And even though it’s been that long, I still have that feeling in the back of my mind he will just surprise me and show up. I say that every time I come home, but since Kaia has been around, it’s almost like I feel it even more deeply — maybe because it’s on behalf of both Kaia and me. He never knew what it was like to be an uncle, to have a niece as sweet and cheeky as Kaia Pookie. It’s not just about me anymore. I know he would love to meet her.

But it will never be.

Clams, “bivalves,” smaller portions, and the love language of food in Asian families

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During our last two nights in San Francisco, I purposely didn’t make any plans because I figured we should spend those meals with my parents. After the fiasco of the previous Saturday lunch in the Sunset when my dad was scrolling his phone most of the time, my mom joining him and started scrolling her phone, their complaining that the food was taking too long (as they always do when it’s a place I pick), and then my mom refusing to pose for a quick selfie Chris wanted to take (Chris said this was the true cherry on top), neither Chris nor I wanted another meal out with them. They are most comfortable in their own home for them to come and go as they wish, for my dad to leave the table the second he’s done, for my mom to fuss about every five minutes on something unimportant. When we got back to the house on Friday late afternoon and my mom suggested we eat dinner out at a specific (and unnamed because she rarely knows the names of any place) restaurant, multiple times I declined and said we’d just order out. I suggested a neighborhood pizza spot, Gaspare’s, where we could order online and pick up, and so we did that. We got a pizza for us (half mushroom/sausage, half mushroom/pesto), and an order of clams and linguine for Pookster.

I didn’t think much of getting a separate order for Kaia since we know she’s not really into pizza, but I didn’t think that my parents would be so impressed that she likes bivalves. They marveled over her pulling out each individual clam from the shell and shoving it into her mouth. She also picked at the endless little clams that were dotted throughout the pasta between bites of the linguine noodles. And my mom couldn’t believe someone so young was into clams (while she also freaked out in the beginning, insisting that the clam shells could be dangerous with potentially sharp edges). In the process of ordering the clams with linguine, I had also forgotten my dad loves clams, so he also enjoyed this dish while pretend-fighting with Kaia to eat some of her clams.

My parents clearly made a mental note about Kaia and her love of mollusks, so when they ordered takeout tonight from a local Cantonese spot, they ordered one fish dish and one scallop dish. I was surprised when they unveiled the food to see that the scallops were actually presented directly on their shells, and under a bed of vermicelli noodles seasoned with a generous amount of garlic and scallions. Unfortunately, Kaia is not as interested in scallops, but they wouldn’t have known that when they chose this food. In the end, she mostly ate the noodles that were elegantly placed on top of the scallop shells. While the flavor of the dish was very good, I was a bit disappointed with how teeny tiny the scallops were. I didn’t want to say anything to make it seem like I was critical, but overall, the quantity of scallops and the size were a true letdown.

The next day, my dad asked me how much we paid for the clams and linguine. When I told him, he exclaimed what good value it was because that scallop dish he got was four dollars less, but had barely any food to eat. I always smile a little to myself every time my dad inadvertently compliments me (or anyone, really) because compliments do not come naturally to him. He is 100 times more likely to poo poo on anything than to praise.

One thing I noticed they did differently during this visit is that not only was there far less food in the fridge (though somehow, there were over a hundred eggs in the fridge, for reasons I have zero visibility into…), but they also ordered far less food for our meals together, which meant they’d have far less food left over. I was really happy about this. No one enjoys eating leftovers for days on end, and given it’s just the two of them, they really shouldn’t have too much food around, anyway. Maybe it’s my parents finally coming to terms with the fact that they are actually getting older and can’t just keep eating the same or keep storing food forever (though I did have to throw a lot of rotted cantaloupe and plums out because they had way too much fruit they couldn’t get through in time).

My parents and I do not have the best relationship — it’s quite far from it. But I do see and acknowledge the times when they do try. One of the few love languages they both share is food. It’s one of the oldest and most classic ways for Asian parents to show love and affection. I was really touched when I saw the scallops they got for Kaia (even if she didn’t like them). I like that they finally listened to me when I said not to order too much food, or when I insisted that we just eat at home.

I’m grateful that the second weekend at my parents’ place fared much better than the first weekend, and that in general, my dad seemed more engaged with Kaia and talked more, and that my mom seemed a tiny bit less controlling and more willing to relent than the prior weekend. We only see each other once a year, and it always makes me feel better when we end on a positive note.

Under mom’s control

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Sometimes, certain objects, images, conversations, or current moments remind me of things from the past that I thought I’d forgotten, but were just buried deep into the back of my psyche that it’s almost like I chose to forget them. And there’s probably a reason I might have subconsciously chosen to forget: they were not healthy and likely did not serve me well at all.

In the few weekend days I’ve been at my parents’ house, I was reminded of how controlling my mom was even with the most basic things. If she knew that Ed or I was home and even when she and our dad had their keys (which is… always), she’d ring the bell multiple times and demand that we open the door. If we didn’t come within seconds, she’d ring the bell multiple times at once, indicating her impatience. And by the time we got to the door to buzz her in, she’d lash out at us and asked what took so long, as though we were just standing by the door idly, simply waiting at her beck and call to let her in right away. If she needed help with anything, whether it was with something that went wrong with an appliance, clearing dishes from the dish rack, or even locating a missing Tupperware lid, she’d yell one of our names and expect us to come to her immediately and do exactly as she said. It wouldn’t matter if we were on the toilet, in the bathroom, studying, reading, or really anything — she always expected us to drop everything that very second and do exactly as she wanted. And if we didn’t, she’d rush us, yell at us to come right away, and then get angry that we didn’t come fast enough. “I called you several times,” she’d say in her icy tone. “Didn’t you hear me?” It was infuriating as a child into my teen years, and I really started resenting it in my college and then post-college years. And this time, Chris noticed it. “Why is she ringing the bell when they have their keys?” he asked, annoyed, as I was helping out with Kaia as he was washing her up. “We’re in the middle of something. She has a key and can let herself in!”

That’s the thing, though. Nothing we ever did mattered, and she didn’t care if we were in the “middle” of anything. Everything we did had to revolve around her and what she did and wanted. And it seems that she operates like that now with her Jehovah’s Witness “brothers and sisters.” She doesn’t have any kids under her roof to control anymore, so I guess she had to move onto another group, which is her JW crew, all of whom have no spine to stand up to her. A JW friend of mine in her congregation revealed that my mom is even controlling about which seats people sit in when she’s in one of their cars, which is one of the stupidest and most senseless things ever.

It’s okay, though. Oftentimes in the last ten years to be passive aggressive back, I just ignore her when she calls me and expects me to come right away. Depending on what I am doing, I let her call my name anywhere from six to ten times before I actually come. She can wait until I am done with what I am doing. I am not in a rush for her. And when she gets mad now at this, I am just indifferent to her face.

My mom also loves leaving bedroom doors locked, but she gets angry when we lock the doors. She constantly would lock her bedroom door while I was in the house. She insisted it was because Kaia kept coming in to mess up things, to take their candy (why are there bowls of candy in their room, anyway…?!), but I think it’s because she just didn’t want to expose all the crap she stores and hoards in there. But if we locked the door because we were changing clothes, she’d get mad and passively aggressively say in yet another cold tone, “There’s no reason to lock the door.” Actually, there is, since she and my dad have zero sense of what the word “boundaries” mean, and they constantly open bedroom and bathroom doors without ever knocking or asking. I think we’ve lost count of the number of times both of them have walked in on Chris. I don’t believe in bedroom door locks (they seem very excessive to me: once you have broken into someone’s home, what’s stopping them from breaking your bedroom door lock?!), but I use them in my parents’ house because I know if I don’t, they will walk in on us at the most inopportune times.

My mom has always liked to pack me food when I go back to the East Coast even when I’ve told her I don’t need anything or I don’t have luggage space. I know food is a big love language for her, so usually I try to humor her and take what I can. But sometimes, she legitimately just buys too much stuff, and I have to be honest and say I don’t have the space. She called me while we were at the playground on Saturday to tell me she bought six zongzi (THAT IS A LOT) and wanted me to take them back to New York. I told her I didn’t think I’d have the space for all of them, but I could maybe fit two or three. She got really angry at this and responded, “Okay, okay, fine! You do what you want! I am not the troublemaker here, so you just do what you want!” and then hung up. The irony of this statement is that in more cases than not, my mom is most definitely the “troublemaker,” but she not only refuses to see it, but almost no one in her life is willing to call her out on it. It’s only in the extreme cases, like when she tried to endanger my daughter’s life, that I have to yell at her and call her out on her genuine bullshit. And even then, it still doesn’t get into her head.

It’s okay, though. Once I leave their house and go back to my new and adopted home of New York, I get back to my own calm and slowly forget all that stupid and unnecessary trauma from the past… and then get reminded of it once I step foot in that house again the next time. And then again, I feel grateful I was able to escape and live my own life free of their control and toxicity.

What changes in ten, twenty-plus years

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I feel like every time I come home to San Francisco, I notice yet another thing that has changed. I hadn’t passed 6th and Geary Blvd in ages, and I was shocked while walking along Geary yesterday to see that the entire area that used to be the Ashley & McMullen family owned funeral home was not only demolished, but completely replaced by a multi-story condominium building. There’s no way this happened in just the last year, and I guess I hadn’t passed this part of Geary to notice it. I don’t know why that felt so strange to me, though; condos replace older buildings all the time everywhere, especially places like San Francisco that have a housing shortage. Both my grandma and my uncle had their funerals at this funeral home, in 1995 and then in 2000.

The Alexandria theater at 18th and Geary is still abandoned and looking worn down, a pigeon-poop filled home that is blocked off to humans by aggressive gating. Gaspare’s, the neighborhood Italian American restaurant in the Richmond, still seems to be going strong; we ended up getting takeout pizza and clams with linguine from there on Friday night for family dinner at home. B. Patisserie, a popular (and at that time, very innovative) bakery run by a Chinese American female pastry chef that opened in 2012, is not only humming along in the same location on California at Divisadero, but they have even opened a second location in the heart of downtown now. We went there yesterday and enjoyed some pastries and coffee before walking to Japantown. While I was there, I thought about the week and a half I spent at home in November 2014 because of my dad’s scheduled bypass surgery. His hospital was walking distance from the bakery cafe, so I remember meeting my friend there for lunch one day, and also going there on my own a separate time to decompress a little.

On Friday, I took Kaia to the South Park playground to play while I caught up with an old friend there who drove out to meet us. She was meeting Kaia and also seeing me as a mother for the very first time. It was funny to be in that area after so long, as the last time I remember being in South Park, it was summer 2003, when I had a full-time summer writing internship at WireTap Magazine, a now defunct youth magazine that was owned by the Independent Media Institute (which also used to own Mother Jones). Over twenty years ago, I was an aspiring writer in high school, and today, I am living across the country and am a mother. The play structure had completely changed in the children’s play area, yet the park and surrounding buildings all felt the same. Even some of the fancy cafes that were there twenty years ago still remain today, like Caffe Centro.

People always say things like, “If these walls could talk….” The truth is that there are memories that are conjured every time you walk through old hallways, streets, and neighborhoods that you had frequented, especially when you call the city or town your childhood home. The memories are always a mix of happy, sad, infuriating, and even indifferent, but they are ultimately what colored our lives at a given point in time. Because Kaia is with me, I can see the city through her eyes now. On this trip alone, I’ve lost count of the number of neighborhoods we’ve taken her to and playgrounds/play areas where we’ve played: the Richmond, the Bay Area Discovery Museum in Sausalito, Chinatown, North Beach, South Beach, downtown/the Ferry Building area, the Tenderloin, Noe Valley, the Fillmore. I love watching her run around and play on these local playgrounds. Of course, they are not the same as the playgrounds and structures I played on as a kid, as all of them have been redone regardless of the neighborhood. But when I asked her if she likes San Francisco and being here, she vigorously nodded, “yes.” And that made me feel warm and fuzzy inside.

San Francisco Columbarium – changing hands, charging higher prices, and reducing quality of service

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Back in July 2013 when Ed passed, the San Francisco Columbarium was owned by the Neptune Society. About a year later, it changed hands and got acquired by Dignity Memorial, the primary brand of Service Corporation International (SCI), which is North America’s largest provider of funeral, cremation, and cemetery services. They own over 2,000 locations across the U.S. and Canada. I never realized it changed ownership. My parents took care of all of Ed’s arrangements plus their future arrangements ahead of time. I wasn’t even aware of the change of ownership until today when we visited Ed.

Over the years, the service has been really strange and inconsistent. They used to provide a decent coffee/tea machine in the main lobby. That has been taken away. They also had a really practical and logical digital directory where you could look up a loved one to see exactly where and in which hall their niche was located. All of these things have been removed. There was a period when they actually closed as early as 3pm (WHAT!) on random days of the week, and we were rudely greeted by a locked and chained up gate when we tried to drive in. Today when we visited, the main door to the Hall of Olympians, where Ed is, was locked. The sign on the front said to sign in at the front desk before getting admitted. It made no sense to me. We did enter through a side door that was closed but unlocked, and an employee was walking around from the main office and asked us to keep it closed for security purposes. But, there’s no ventilation or air conditioning inside, so I started sweating almost immediately upon entering; it wasn’t even that hot outside, as it was likely 69 or 70 F when we arrived, but inside that hall felt like a sauna. Chris insisted to the employee that the door at least be kept open during our short visit, so the worker relented and said it was okay just while we were there.

This annoyed me for a few reasons. Clearly, vandalism was a concern here, but the security guard who used to walk in and around the Columbarium in previous years was gone. So this led us to the conclusion that they probably stopped paying for security services (because they want to cut costs) and instead wanted to keep all the doors locked. That’s extremely unwelcoming and creates an uncomfortable visitation experience for families and loved ones of people who are interred here. My parents paid over $20K for this niche, and the service has declined over all these years to the point where it feels like we’re getting ripped off. Yet there’s nothing we can do about it.

One of the workers who helped me cut flowers to put into Ed’s little vase made it pretty obvious she hated working here and wasn’t treated well. “But no one else would hire me,” she lamented in a bitter tone. Before she expressed this, she said that it was tolerable to work here, “If you do every little thing correctly and follow all the rules and make no mistakes.” Ouch.

In general, I have always hated the death industry. It’s a necessary one (sort of), but one that preys on the grieving, on the vulnerable mental states of those who have lost… and many who have lost too soon, like us with Ed. This whole experience was pretty infuriating. The only thing that made me feel better was when Kaia kept peering into Ed’s niche and waving to him. When I told her it was eventually time to go, she said “bye bye” one last time… walked away, but then ran back twice to look closely at her JiuJiu before finally taking my hand and walking out with me.

I don’t know when I will first have a real conversation about Kaia’s JiuJiu with her. I am sure that at some point in the next couple of years, she will ask, and I’ll have to figure out the right, age-appropriate way to explain this. But regardless of how the topic gets brought up or which way the conversation goes, I have a feeling that she will respond with empathy and love. She is not even four years old yet, but I can see my Kaia Pookie seems to care deeply and have concern for others, even those she has not even met.

The things that give my dad joy: his compost pile and worms

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Years ago, my therapist asked me if I’d ever thought that maybe my parents actually are happy, that they might just define “happiness” or “joy” or even “fun” differently than me. I agreed with her and said that yes, they most definitely define all those things differently than me. But I did not think that living in spaces that are cluttered with literal trash and junk up to the ceiling was hygienic, healthy, or joyful.

My mom tries her best to clean what she can. But I know her fatigue and spine misalignment do prevent her from doing as much comfortably, so she has let go of caring of a lot of cleaning that she used to be obsessive about (and constantly yell at Ed and me about growing up). My dad isn’t a very clean person sadly. It’s almost like he doesn’t see the thick layers of dust accumulating on the shelves or the gunk accumulating in his soap dishes. But while he fails to keep clean and tidy, he seems to be very into his compost pile in the backyard. Right now, it seems to be his mini source of pride. He was talking about it when we got home today, and I suggested that maybe he could show it to Kaia. My dad, almost like a kid lighting up at the mention of “candy,” immediately agreed and offered to take us to the backyard to show us. We bundled Kaia up and brought her down to the yard.

My dad showed us the black bins where he stored fruit, veggie, and shredded paper scraps. And in it was mixed dirt which had been turned into very rich, dark, (and stinky) soil. He used a shovel to see if he could show Kaia some worms, and he found three of varying sizes, all wiggling around excitedly at being moved. Kaia was extremely intrigued, looking at all the worms squirming around just inches from her face. And like last year, her eyes were glimmering with fascination at the extremely messy, weed-strewn yard, with endless piles of dirt, overgrowth, potted plants, and zero sense of order. It’s almost as though lack of order, untidiness, and piles of junk are a young toddler’s paradise for treasure hunting. She ran around it a few times, poking and peering at random plants and pots. She seemed to find the chaos and mess fun — that’s youthful “ignorance is bliss,” isn’t it?

Even though the yard is a total mess, and has continued to be a weed fest since my grandmother died in 2005 with signs of only getting worse and more cluttered, my dad seems to have his own blissful ignorance about it. My parents have both propagated and bought new potted plants that do seem to be faring well, even in the last year. But there is zero chance that any of these plants will be properly planted into the ground with any real landscaping work to be done to make the yard into a welcoming garden or a place of pride. My dad was happily explaining the way compost works and how the worms help the soil get richer to Kaia. It was likely the happiest I’d seen him during this entire visit. I asked him if he was planning to use this enriched soil for his plants, to which he responded… No, because he just wanted it to keep regenerating and feeding!

I thought the whole point of having a compost pile was to a) reduce waste by recycling food scraps and b) create rich soil to help other plants grow. The rhyme and reason never quite makes sense to me in this house.

So, maybe I do think it’s a bit senseless to create compost soil and not do anything with it to help other plants or with up-soiling the yard. But it seems to make my dad happy and give him some purpose. Maybe in that sense, I should just accept that as something that brings him joy. And if it partially keeps him occupied in a way he finds productive, then that’s all that matters. It’s ultimately his life and what makes him happy.

My mom’s first ride in a Waymo

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On Saturday when we went to the Ferry Building Farmers Market, my mom said she wanted to come with us while my dad waited for workers to come remove the staging in front of the house from having the facade painted. I figured it would be a good idea since now that she hasn’t worked in over two decades, she rarely has any reason or desire to go downtown. Plus, she would never be interested in visiting any San Francisco farmers’ market without me. Before we even arrived in San Francisco, Chris had declared that he wanted to take Waymo, the self-driving cars, as much as possible while we were within city limits (Waymo only works within the city and on local roads now). We took it a couple times while back here in August 2024, and Chris was eager to have the self-driving experience again.

So without telling my mom, Chris ordered a Waymo to appear at the house to take us to the Ferry Building. When it was coming up the block, my mom panicked when she saw it and asked if that Waymo was for us. “Oh, no, no, no!” she cried. “I’m not getting into that! This is so dangerous!” I urged her to get in and not make a fuss. We buckled in Kaia with her ride-safe belt as she giggled in glee and excitement. “WAYYYYY MOOOOOOO!” she kept yelling happily. Kaia is absolutely obsessed with Waymo and can spot any of them from far away on the street or through the window. Every time she spots one, she yells out, “WAYYY MOOOO!”

When the doors closed and we started the ride, my mom began to calm down. She liked the welcome message, that it says hello and urges you to fasten your seat belt and enjoy the ride. She loved how clean the car was and the (at-the-speed-limit) speed it was driving at. And she especially loved the message that came at the end when you are approaching your destination — it reminds you to take all your belongings, and not to leave your phone or wallet in the car. “Oh, that’s so nice!” she laughed at the auto reminder message.

Later, my mom admitted to me that she was really scared and didn’t think that self-driving cars should be legal. But then once she got into the car, she realized how comfortable, clean, and nice it was. “It’s so clean and well maintained!” my mom exclaimed. “And it drives so safely (read: slower)!”

The very first time I got into a Waymo in August 2024, I was a bit leery initially. But after the first 30 seconds, I got used to it right away and love it. As Chris loves to create verbal bullet points for all the pros of self-driving cars, his points are all true: these cars are safer. You don’t have to worry about a driver judging you for any reason (what you look like, how you talk, what you talk about, how long it takes you to load the trunk/get in the car/get your child properly fastened in). There’s no need to feel rushed when getting in and out of the car because the driver will negatively rate you. If you need to take a phone call or call someone, you can do it without annoying the driver. You also don’t have to worry about whether you are slamming the door or trunk too hard, whether you are bothering your driver with any seat preferences you may have (some Uber/Lyft drivers really don’t like it when you sit in the front seat alongside them). And you have full control over things like heating/air conditioning and music and can calibrate them yourself.

And as someone who has always hated driving and hasn’t driven a car since 2008, I think that self-driving cars really should be the future!

The friends/kids dinner that did not go as “hoped”

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Tonight, we went over to a good friend’s house for dinner. She has two kids similar in age to Kaia. Last minute, her husband decided to not stay home for dinner with us and instead to go play pickleball with friends. “It won’t be that bad,” he insisted to his wife (my friend). “They’ll just play together, and you guys can talk.”

It never goes as you hope, though. My friend had just come back from picking up both her daughters, and they were both cranky. One of them was particularly unwieldy and roaring at us like a wolf. And as we were attempting to eat dinner, and my friend had already reheated her dinner more than twice, it actually felt like the three girls could be in the living room all playing relatively harmoniously together. But out of nowhere when none of the adults were paying attention, Kaia started crying hysterically. She had the long, high-pitched wails, the big fat tears rolling down her face. I ran over to comfort her. I asked her what happened. Maya looked angry and kept staring away. And Maya’s little sister Juni, as though “protecting” herself behind the window curtain, yelled out, “She hit her!” Juni paused for a little bit. “And then, she did this!” Juni motioned and took a toy and crashed it down (on a head).

My friend then sent Maya to her room. She did not stay there, though: she kept popping out to roar repeatedly at us. My friend proceeded to call her husband multiple times, leaving several voice messages with the general message of, “Your daughter is being extremely NOT well behaved. YOU NEED TO COME HOME NOW AND HELP ME.” My friend was definitely struggling and increasingly getting frustrated and feeling helpless. She also just relented and ate the rest of her dinner cold.

Eventually, everyone calmed down. The kids played alongside each other, then together, then started running after each other while giggling. And of course, at that point, it was time for us to leave before all the tots got overly tired.

Once we left, my friend texted me several times to apologize for not having the night we “hoped” for. She said she blamed her husband for bailing on us so last minute. But she also blamed herself for not knowing “what was really bothering” Maya.

Parenting is hard, even when you have an involved spouse, even when you have paid and/or unpaid help, even when you try your absolute best with the best intentions. But as much as I hate to admit it, it’s in times like this when I think… I love having “just” Kaia. To me, it’s not *just* her. She’s my everything, and I love being fully devoted to caring for her as my one sweet baby.