Good afternoon,
If there is one thing you must know about me, it is that food is the way to my heart.
When the pandemic consumed our lives, like everyone else, I was stuck at home with my parents. We split up sections of the house to keep from hovering too close to one another, but meals in the evening became the hub where we came together as a family.
During really quiet days when the only thing on the news was the mounting COVID-19 cases, I picked up cooking and baking to keep me busy. I clumsily banged around pots and pans and metal bowls; I used far too many utensils for basic dishes and the number of times I’ve rubbed my eyes after cutting an onion are in excess, but it was one of a handful of activities that help shut out the rest of the world.
“I let the small things bring me joy and cooking with meaning made me feel productive during a time that felt turbulent and uncertain. Cooking gave me purpose to my day and there was a real gratification in creating something from nothing.”
Eventually, I got pretty damn good at it and cooking and baking were part of my everyday routine. Just like that our roles switched, I was the one making comfort foods for my parents. When my dad worked long days, locked in his office with a calendar blocked with meetings, I’d bake him blueberry muffins or a lemon loaf so he would have something to pair with his morning coffee. For my mother, I’d bake soft butter cookies that she could dip in her tea or have as an afternoon treat.
There’s a specific feeling you get when you see someone take their first bite and slowly close their eyes to savour your food. To see them nod as they chew and swallow and then say, “Well, that was delicious,” before reaching for another serving.
Where It All Started
All of my fondest memories surround the meals that I’ve shared with family and friends and many of them shaped my love for food. On many weekends, while living in Singapore, my family and I use to drive out to the JUMBO Seafood restaurant in Dempsey Hill for our fill of spicy chilli crab, black pepper crab (my fathers favourite), fried ‘Man Tou’ (馒头 - a small bao or bread loaf), and vegetable beancurd braised with mushrooms. We’d sweat under the heat of Singapore’s humidity while a weak fan above pushed hot air around; our fingers would be sticky, but our bellies full and happy.
When I was sick as a kid, my mother used to make congee (粥 or 稀飯), a type of rice porridge that is typically eaten for breakfast. She would drizzle it with a bit of sesame oil and sliced scallions. She’d add shredded chicken or pork and then top it with a spoonful sesame oil. Now every time I have congee, I think of those days when she would care for me.
After we left Singapore and moved to London and as I grew older, I became more aware of my mixed heritage and the importance food played in my identity as a bi-racial child. Having an Irish father meant I leaned on my mother for my Chinese heritage; fearing that if I didn’t learn from her now, I’d lose any sense of Asian identity and belonging. I began to go with her to the giant Chinese supermarkets that sold 10kg bags of onions and garlic and rapeseed oil by the barrel. Unable to to speak or read Chinese, I rarely wandered off down the aisles alone as I often felt out of place, like an imposter.
I watched my mother inspect the garlic stems and bok choy in the cold food section with great detail, sometimes digging into the back of the fridge for the produce that people haven’t yet manhandled. All the while, I was making mental notes of everything she bought so I could one day be able to cook for my own kids the way she cooked for me.
She’d stand in the sauce aisle and load up on everything that I was positive we already had [a habit I’ve come to find is typical in my family] - fish sauce, soy sauce, oyster sauce, hoisin sauce, sauce specifically for rice, and other sauces meant only for dumplings.
When we returned home, I watched as my mother donned an apron, grab a seasoned wok and use her massive chopper to slice bok choy, scallions, red chilies, bean sprouts and mushrooms. The room would fill with the smell of garlic and onion frying on a fiery stovetop, and the green vegetables would sizzle and spit as she threw it in the hot oil. It was like watching one of those street vendors you see in Taiwan or Korea or Japan sweating away as they quickly serve an influx of customers.
When she finished cooking, she’d serve it in a small bowl lined with chopsticks on top. I’d devour it instantly, mouthwateringly hungry and she’d lean over to me, arms resting on the counter and ask: “How is it? Is it good?”
I’d nod and say with a mouth full of food, “It’s so good. It’s hou jeng,” (好勁 - Cantonese for ‘very good’ or ‘awesome.’)
My mother religiously never follows a recipe; she might watch a video on how to make a dish, she might even use the same ingredients they do, but very rarely does she actually follow the instructions given. It might be a cultural thing, but Asian mothers tend to abandon measurements and adopt vague instructions to guide them. It’s instinctual and everything is adjusted with taste and personal preference.
For my mother, food was an emotional outlet, a way to express that she loved me and wanted me to eat well even when she couldn’t say it with words. The food I ate and the people I shared meals with shaped my love for food and is really where it all started.
Made with love, for love
When you think about it, it’s only when people start to cook for you, or even attempt to do so, or just simply order your favourite dish at the end of a long arduous day, they truly start to value who you are.
There’s something so simple yet deliberate about the act of cooking for another.
Oatmeal raisin cookies were one of the first treats I baked for my boyfriend. I snuck them in a paper bag during one of our first dates to the cinema (we saw M. Night Shyamalan’s “Old” and it was a solid 6/10 movie). Before I even met his parents, for his father’s birthday, I made chocolate chunk cookies - my way of trying to deem myself worthy enough to date their son. I might as well have worn a shirt that read “please like me! I’m desperate for your approval!”
Food is my way of showing gratitude, to show how much I care about someone. When I think of people close to me, I think of the times we’ve shared meals together and how we’ve bonded in those moments.
The love language of food is a trust act that shows vulnerability - you chop and slice, you flavour the dish with spices, you labour away and pour your heart and soul and every fibre of your being into it and just hope that the dish comes out perfect enough to present to the people you hold close to you.
At the end of the day, what I care about is whether it makes them feel warm inside, to feel loved for and nourished. When I dish the food out, what I’m really saying is “I love you.”
How lovely. I'm far too impatient to be a good cook!