We weren’t exactly rewriting our family traditions, but it felt good knowing that there was still a place for me in them.
I pray my baby will love their body, or at least accept it, and carry it around the world, just as I have carried them too, with pride and joy.
“The food scene in the Bay Area is dying because everything is so expensive; rent is expensive.”
I deliberately and obstinately use the word ‘limdi’ and not the term ‘curry leaf’ because the word ‘curry’ has always bothered me.
Eunjo Park, the executive chef at Momofuku’s Kawi, is cooking her way through it. Her food is a reminder that it’s okay not to be one-hundred percent anything.
I sought a cherished symbol from my own childhood, not a standardized emblem of all Indonesian culture, which I can’t and shouldn’t pretend is all mine to take.
Miraci is being the one thing blackness has always been forced to be even when unwilling—political.
“I wanted to be present in Paris. I forgot to be present with my family.”
This Eid will not be Eid until I’ve spent time crying and laughing, describing the aromas of foods that are not here.
Holding on to our cultural foods and customs was a labor of love, but labor nevertheless. American Night provided a little respite.
“FOE!” he had yelled, when really, phở is more graceful than that.
I want to be the bridge between his memory and her love for cooking.