Every single Asian kid out there is dealing with trauma. We were not raised with hugs, cuddles, encouragement or even acknowledgement. We were raised with high expectations, aspirations of greatness, cheap, two-dollar slippers that harden to make an effective weapon, body shaming and bamboo canes.
You know how you watch movies where some poor kid is being emotionally crushed by the weight of their parent’s unwavering expectations and you think it is a black and white, good versus evil dynamic until you realise this is how the parent expresses their care and love for their child, only to be abandoned for say, a superficial friendship because they never taught their child what affection really is, only to have the kid learn that their parent actually cares in the last possible moment of the film and it brings everyone together again? Well, we had to fucking live that, but the reality of the situation is that our parents were never shown love, which makes them emotionally stunted, and we have no idea what love is either, so we are even more emotionally underdeveloped. When the credits roll in the film of our lives, we are all just standing there short, awkward and asking what everyone wants to eat for dinner.
The first time my parents asked me for a hug, I was a fully grown adult who had been living out of home for many years and my response to that was, “Are you both dying?”
It wasn’t until I turned into a responsible person and actually put the work into myself, that I learned that food was an expression of my parent’s love. I mean, three little words could have dealt with years and years of generational trauma, but I guess our cuisine wouldn’t be so damn good if we went around telling our family members we loved each other all the time. Worth it.
When other kids were sent to school with sandwiches, cheese balls covered in wax and juice boxes, I was opening up Thermoses full of herbal soups or rice with the previous night’s leftovers. Well, that was until my parents thought my sister and I could fend for ourselves (this is them teaching us grit, life skills and independence, by the way) and stopped packing our lunches for us. I remember when we were in high school, I’d made my own lunch but my sister walked up to me with a mouldy sandwich filled with Cottee’s strawberry jam and Kraft plastic cheese and she screamed, “Mum doesn’t love me!” In case you’re wondering, I told her, “She hasn’t loved me for years, pack your own lunch,” before I offered her my apple.
What loaded statements from teenage girls who had no idea this would be such a learning moment. This, my friends, is what they call hindsight.
You see, when you’re going through puberty and your body is bleeding from places it wasn’t previously bleeding from, you’re slightly less hairless, your skin goes from poreless glass to some volcanic eruption and you’re competing against a few hundred other gifted females for that 99.95 TER score while wearing the ugliest school uniform on earth despite going to a state school, this is the shit you see. You don’t see your father getting up at 5am to slice and marinate meats for dinner even though he’d make it to work on time if he woke up at six, him making batters and sauces, slicing and chopping, steaming, deep-frying, stir-frying and simmering so every night you’d be served four different dishes, family-style with rice, bookended with herbal soups and a plate of meticulously peeled seasonal fruit. When your brain isn’t fully developed, this isn’t called love, this is just called dinner.
A lot of my Asian friends have the same fractured relationships with their parents for the same reason. During lockdown, instead of saying they missed their parents, my friends would say that they missed their parent’s cooking. In that tiny moment, I think to myself, I might be traumatised and emotionally broken, but at least I’m not as traumatised and emotionally broken as you.
What I’m reading:
Xi’an Famous Foods: The Cuisine of Western China, From New York’s Favourite Noodle Shop. The Wang family have loved keeping their recipes a family secret, but they’ve finally released a cookbook. I eat here at least five times, every trip I do to New York, and seeing as it will be a long time before I get on a plane again, I bought this book from a UK seller (it’s not released in Australia). Thankfully, the measurements are both in metric and bullshit. My favourite part of the book is when Jason Wang finally admits that he mashes up a few dishes to make menu items at the shop and they’re not strictly authentic in the way that white people call their shops authentic. Zing.
What I’m eating:
I finally got my yum cha fix, even though the experience was slightly disappointing due to sloppy food and a lot of oversteaming. At least there was good chat. Carlton Wine Room is as excellent as ever and if you’re feeling anxious about all the greatest hits being removed from the menu, don’t be. Bar Saracen will stuff you silly for $90 a head in a dinner that features a lot of greenery plucked from yards that Tom has connections to (which I am loving), which you’re encouraged to eat with your hands. The website is misleading when it says it is only giving you three courses- it’s more like three waves of food before you even get to dessert. Do yourself a favour and skip lunch because you do want to finish everything in front of you.
What I’m loving:
Gyms are open again. There is nothing quite as satisfying as being roasted while exerting yourself as much as you possibly can, while looking as unattractive as you ever will, in a room full of beautiful people.
Do you have friends who think their parents don’t love them?
Did you just realise that your parents love you?