The taste of love

Somewhere, around those rice paddies, there lies the magic... 

I have been always enchanted with stepping out of my dining comfort zones. Ever since I was able to sit firmly on a chair, I have been behaving beyond my age around the table. Imagine a plump one-year-old sitting on a stool, which was placed on a chair to reach the table. Her hands, grasping the chopsticks, are trying to raise the long strands of broiled duck noodles. You didn't hear me wrong - that was me at a typical family dinner, having the same dishes - by chopsticks, not spoon - like everyone else instead of mashed broccoli. I could also enjoy spices at an early age, leading to my kindergarten teacher's gasps when I asked for more extra hot chili sauce added to my lunch. My parents would never harbor run-of-the-meal concerns about me skipping meals or being ridiculously picky, for I was that kind of kid who would happily dine on anything. From eels to tofu and balut, nothing could stop me from venturing out of my wildest taste buds (not without gaining more weight, after all). Any meal, whether set on a Formica table by the sidewalk or on a gingham picnic blanket, can bring me joy to the highest extent. A prime example of this is my 4am visit to the hủ tiếu (a Cambodian-styled noodle soup dish) after a red-eye flight back from the States. Even if my midnight meal took place on a dimly lit sidewalk with mosquitoes and thrown napkins under the floor, it was one of the best meals of my life.

Hủ tiếu for breakfast - and life!

This culinary adventurousness was somehow fostered by life in Vietnam, where food penetrates multiple aspects of the culture and language. For a language with "ăn" (to eat) making up a large portion of the vocabulary, it is no surprise that I, a hardcore Vietnamese, grew to become entrenched with all of the notions of cuisine and delicacy. Though I have to admit that frying fish cakes in the kitchen on a July noon is not quite a refreshing experience, I adore tiptoeing around the marbled dining table to sample my mom's heavenly dishes. Back in the days when I spent my entire grade 10 in Vietnam, the scent of food lingering around the house would be an excuse for me to take a long break from my online assignment. Most of the time, the whole kitchen upstairs was - and still is - flooded with food. The fridge was always stocked with fresh radish sprouts harvested from the rooftop and at least 5 kinds of fish from the morning market, whereas the pantry would be filled with a vast array of spices and condiments. Sometimes, we would have relatives from the countryside coming over with enough food for the whole family in months. They brought along cans bulging with black squid sauce glimmering like ink, stacks of rice paper, sautéed pork organs with congee, and my favorite bánh ít lá gai - little pyramid-shaped sweet rice cakes, stuffed with the perfect amount of coconut and mung beans to keep you always wanting for more.

Bánh xèo, a dish of thin fried flour pancakes stuffed with seafood, meat, and spring onions. 

This roadside vendor in My Can, a small town along the rice paddies in the Vietnamese countryside, was one of the reasons behind my rocketing weight back then.

This passion for food has been me ever since, transcending from the kitchen table to a world beyond. Ever since I started school, food has been serving as a medium for me to express myself. As much as I love diving in international fairs, where I can hold samosas in one hand and tea salad in another, I would probably be the factor behind the quick depletion of the dishes at the Vietnamese exhibition. I came to see lunchboxes as mosaics of my personality, each corner representing a different part of my identity. Here can be steamed rice with sautéed basa fish, topped with a bountiful red chili powder and herbs, which represent my family's background from the coastal region of Central Vietnam. The left corner of the box could be sautéed water spinach, which I spent an hour cutting during the weekend. The largest section would be - you've probably guessed it - steamed rice or the pearl of heaven, as the Vietnamese proverb says. Aside from the lack of dessert (so much for a typical Vietnamese meal, huh?), I would love to have some pieces of watermelon or guava dipped with shrimp and chili salt. When I came to Canada, I would be the type of kid who gives her friends coconut candies from Vietnam and then shock them by swallowing the whole wrapper (without them knowing that the wrapper is made of thin rice paper). 

Relishing a meal is one thing, creating it is another. I have never considered myself as having a knack for cooking, which can be evidenced by the rapid decrease of the family's ramen box every time Mom's away from home. Still, I would be here and there to with cutting the chili peppers from outside the balcony or flattening ripe bananas out with a pestle to make banana ice cream. When Saigon was in lockdown during the summer, I spent many rainy afternoons with the family in the kitchen making bao dumplings. The table would be divided into two sections: a filling station and a dough station. The filling station, which I always looked longingly to, was full of bowls of meatballs, minced jicamas, and black wood ears (wannabe mushrooms, if you're wondering what those are), while the dough station would be coated in white flour. As my mom knew that I would sabotage a bao once I made any attempts to fold the dough, I was given the most mundane task on Earth - peeling boiled quail eggs - while resisting snitching one or two of them. Meanwhile, I could only wish that I could have dexterous hands like hers to create the intricate creases and folds on the dumpling. Just in fifteen minutes, a fresh batch would be out of the steamer and disappeared behind a table full of hungry relatives, and not without the one writing this. Everyone would gather around sniffing the steaming pot full of milky-white dumplings shaped like mini clouds, while listening to the tapping sound of rain overhead. 

In just a flick, amid all the chaos and calamities of the outside world, I felt completely safe and sound.

Little bundles of joy