Food & Family History

Growing up, I took my mother’s Chinese home cooking for granted.

For years, I idly sat in the kitchen — seeing the rice cooker and wok as fixtures of the house I didn’t think much of or know how to use, like the thermostat on the wall or the electric panel in the basement. I was adept at setting the table and eating meals, but knew nothing of the steps it took to make them. 

Then, the pandemic happened.

Seemingly endless free time and the restlessness that ensued led me into the kitchen. I’ve stepped up my menial cooking duties from kitchen courier (carrying ingredients up and down the stairs) to fine-tuning my knife and stir frying skills. I relish in my culinary creations and their subtleties — the flaky buttery crust of dan ta baked to perfection, the numbing spiciness of ma po dou fu sauce with silken tofu and the crunch of bean sprouts with tender salty beef in beef chow fun. Shoulder to shoulder with mom, I make the dishes I grew up with. 

But time in the kitchen is more than a gastronomical escapade. Bouncing from sink, to cutting board, to stove, my mom recalls the memories behind the food, as rich as the dishes themselves. The countless meals cooked with the wok — which has been in the family since 1982 — or her own childhood memories of using canned fried dace with black bean to stretch out a meal. In the kitchen, I learn more than just how to chop garlic and clean bok choy — I learn a bit of family history.

Sometimes, the food isn’t about the food, but the stories behind it. In a pandemic that has kept us at home, barred travel and landed planes, a good dish teleports me to the dim sum parlors of Manhattan’s Chinatown or the food courts of Flushing, Queens. From the kitchen, I explore family history and make dishes from places far away. A new dish is a new skill added to my repertoire, paired with another story from mother. I wonder what stories my own cooking will tell.