You might have noticed I'm Asian American. Most of my friends say I'm as American as Apple Pie, and in spite of this, there are people who will say "You speak English very well." I should hope so!
And then there are people who do know me, some quite well, and for some reason they assume I cook and eat Chinese food exclusively. I find this surprising, hilarious and shocking. How is this possible?
Most people find it shocking that I rarely cook Chinese. Almost never. This time, it is they who ask, How is this possible?
For many reasons:
Too labor intensive. I live in a metropolitan area where it's relatively easy and economical to get really great Chinese/Asian food. I figure, why compete?
I once taught Chinese gourmet cooking in Austin Texas thinking if you cook it, they (chefs, restaurants) will come. They did. But before that happened, my roommate had to drive me to Houston to buy "special" ingredients.
Then I remembered. Long ago I used to cook Chinese food every single day. In Akron Ohio where "special" ingredients were hard to come by. Required weekend trips to Toronto. While cleaning up my office, I found an essay I wrote for ChefShop in Seattle. It was for Mother's Day, Food Memories of Mom, 2000. This probably best explains why I gave up Chinese food.
I cannot cook Chinese food without thinking about my mother. She's probably the reason I stopped cooking Chinese for several years, why there are some dishes that are still too painful to make. My mother was a gourmet cook with a chef's license from Hong Kong. David Bouley was impressed. You know how difficult it is to qualify for a chef's license in Hong Kong? One of the hardest. So imagine, if you can, a teenager being forced to recreate her mom's sumptuous dishes night after night, after school, after homework. What dooms a tomboy to such folly?
My parents had a most volatile marriage. Since my father used to bark, my house, my rules, it was always my mother who picked up and left. For a week. A month. A whole summer. Then one day, she never came back. Never. So it became permanent -- my responsibility to cook and clean for my family.
I missed my mother terribly; my life was wrecked, but somehow the act of preparing meals compelled me to collect my wits quickly and focus. Since my most vivid memories of my mother revolve around her in the kitchen, she was always there when I struggled to compose a menu. Her voice lingered in the air. Delicious with garlic and black bean sauce. Slit fish to insert scallions and ginger. Peel broccoli. When I felt overwhelmed and on the verge of tears, she urged me to mash that potato. Boil that carrot. Pound that tenderloin.
Unfortunately, my father was not so supportive of my culinary innovations. He was too accustomed to tradition, served promptly at 6 PM. One evening, I planned to surprise the family with steak au poivre, haricots verts and chocolate mousse. Instead my father surprised me by dumping his dinner in the garbage. How dare I serve him a huge hunk of meat! We fought bitterly over whose cuisine reigned supreme. French or Chinese.
Naturally I hated cooking. I cursed my mother for leaving me with him. For bequeathing me the legacy of Bird's Nest Soup (a play published by JAC Publishing). The last time we cooked together, mom likened us to those poor swallows that have so little food they must regurgitate their insides to build their own nests to survive. That these nests, as unappetizing as they sound, are actually sublime delicacies that command thousands and thousands of dollars. Which means, of course, she assured me, that one day, she and I, we'd, be valued and prized. I couldn't understand any of this. Why can't you stay forever like other moms? She seemed stunned. Haven't you learned anything from cooking? All those times I was away? Indeed. Too much.
