Explorations in Food Journalism (Essay)
When I was a little kid, my family took a Hawaiian vacation. This wasn’t the toes in the sand affair that you might be picturing, but rather a scene reminiscent of the TV show in which two gutsy men chase tornadoes. Among the mudslides and unenjoyed Mauian beaches, we traipsed through the monsoon convinced we would find an odd square foot of sun. My sister and I grew impatient and started what I can only describe as sisterly combat in the back of that mildewy minivan. When my parents could no longer take it, they pulled over with the hopes of some surrender or truce. It was then that my mother had an expert epiphany, “They are just hungry.”
We scanned the landscape, half hoping that some five and dime store would appear like an oasis. Instead we noticed a stand, painted yellow, with a roof made of scrap metal. The minivan doors crept open and our sandals sloshed up the red muddy hill. A nearly imperceptible woman gazed past us. My parents asked for directions, only to be met with a scowl. “Nuh uh.” She scoffed. “I’m cooking for you all.” So we sat on rotting stools, my parents seperating my sister and I, as the deluge closed like a curtain around the stand. Out came the volcanic-looking pan and ingredients which were procured mysteriously onto an impossible stovetop. My sister and I shut up. My mom didn’t take pictures. My dad didn’t make phone calls.
Auntie A introduced herself to us with a smile. She had immigrated from Thailand two years ago and had met her second grandson five days ago. She looked forty-five. The steam off the wok was ceremonious. I had no idea what I smelled or saw-- I saw and heard impressions of what was real the way one watches a cellist. The steam settled. I had forgotten about the rain. Auntie A casually passed me a styrofoam plate of noodles, ignoring my awe. I was told at some point that the dish had a name. Pad See Ew. I was told that my parents went to Thailand for two months when they first met, but never had served me Thai food because of a peanut allergy. Auntie A raised her eyebrows as I lifted my fork. I immediately burned my tongue, but the weighty noodle held it down with triumph. The tangy fish sauce preceded the garlic breath, transforming each broccoli floret into an orb of caramel. I asked for seconds, knowing that we had eaten everything already. My parents tried to pay but there was no price, no menu, no change to give back. Auntie A demanded a shared embrace with my sister so we nestled to her oyster décolletage.
We trod back to the car, smelling of irony mud and chicken skin. I waved but the rain was too thick. I did not know how to return, how to rewind and relive the mirage that suspended us in kindness and a filial piety I had misremembered. All that remained was my burnt tongue.