My Dad Cooked For Me
Right after we got home from the market, my dad took out the lemongrass from the groceries bags, cut them into long segments and washed them really well before smashing them with a huge knife to release the fragrance. He then prepared a large stockpot with water, onions, lemongrass, oxtail, and beef shank and sprinkled a little chili on top. The soup began to boil and smelled amazing. Soon after that, my dad lowered the heat, let the soup simmer, and occasionally stirred from the bottom of the pot. For a second, I really thought my dad knew what he was doing.
But he didn’t.
The one last time my dad tried to stir up the broth, he did it with so much excitement and energy, the whole thing got pushed down on to the ground.
Luckily, the pot settled on its bass, so only half of the broth landed on the floor. Frustrated but a little relieved that not all the food was gone, I started scooping the hot pieces of meat into a bowl while my dad tried to mop up the spilled soup with a kitchen towel. As he was getting close to wiping the last globs, my dad tripped on his knees and drop-kicked the pot into the air and right down onto my lap. Two pieces of meat landed on of my forehead; but I wasn’t even mad, “D-dad that’s amazing!” I cracked up. Our kitchen was filled with gallons of meat juice but we didn’t really care much about it; we sat in the mess and laughed at each other until we both could barely breathe anymore.
Soup was not a regular item in our daily menu. My dad and I normally had steamed rice for our meals because it was the only main dish my dad kind of knew how to do. He inherited an old rice cooker from one of his aunts after she died and had been making really good use of out of it since. Though the rice was always soaking wet and my dad had zero talent in making them; I tried to love it because I loved him.
But that wasn’t a regular day; that was a special day: it was my 6th birthday, which explained why my dad tried so hard to prepare me that special soup instead of his signature wet rice. After the pot fell off, there was approximately only one fourth of the broth left over inside, but I decided to try it anyways, since my dad worked so damn hard on it. Boy how I was happy the pot fell off so I didn’t have to eat anymore of it. The soup had a film of oil floating on top and it was weirdly sweet because he poured in sugar instead of salt. Everything was over-cooked, and flavorless, which was kind of odd, because how could something being cooked for so long it became so over-cooked yet had no flavors. The vegetables became mushy, the broth was bland, and the chunks of beef were so chewy.
None of that was planned. My dad did not plan to mess up the soup or drop-kick it almost onto my face. He definitely did not plan to become a stay-at-home parent who rushed back to the house from the supermarket to clean up so his wife wouldn’t think he was completely useless, (which she did anyway); it just so happened that he wasn’t able to find a decent job after coming back home from the Resistance War Against America, as we knew it in Vietnam, or the Vietnam War, as we called it in America. As a child, I always thought that techniques such as dressing like a tree or blowing up stuff and burning down houses were essential for any occupation. But expectations never kept up with reality. And so while my mom was always away for months on business trips, dad was my parent, my best friend, and most important of all: he was my personal chef.
He cooked me three meals a day, seven days a week, and fifty-two weeks a year; he was a father who cooked for his child, out of love and generosity — maybe, but out of service and duty — definitely. My grandparents named him Linh Hai. Hai means the ocean, and Linh means the bell. Linh Hai means the bell that rings over the oceans. Linh Hai’s parents probably didn’t give him that name in the hope that one day he’d grow up to become a stayed-at home cook. But he did, at least for a period of time. He had to cook for me because it was his job; because if he hadn’t, no one would have; because if he hadn’t, we wouldn’t have had anything to eat and might as well have starved to death. He did not like it — that was for sure, but he did it anyway — what choice did he have? His cooking was, what’s the right word to use here, bad. It was bad. His cooking was bad — that was for sure, but I liked it anyway — what choice did I have? He was the only chef I knew and could afford up to that point. So my dad put food on the table; three meals everyday, twenty-one meals a week, and over one thousand of those same meals a year: he was my family’s cook.
My dad, not my mom, took over the role of a family’s cook simply because he was unemployed, and she wasn’t. And so in that tiny Vietnamese neighborhood, my dad was known by everyone as Mr. Mom. Homemaker had always been considered as a job for either losers or women. People thought of him as a douche who did nothing but living off of his wife. But my dad didn’t seem angry about it at all. Even if he did, he had never showed it to anyone. I never knew for sure whether or not he felt ok with that fact, whether he had that inferiority complex about money or felt self-conscious that my mom was the main provider for the family. As a six year-old, all I knew and cared about was that my dad had all the time in the world to spend with me, and I appreciated it very much. My dad perhaps might have been a bad neighbor, a bad spouse, even a bad son, but for sure, he was never a bad parent.
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