My mom's kitchen

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by Angela Yu Jin MacKenzie

Stories about food and Asian women are cliches that often trigger me to roll my eyes at least a once (sometimes twice).
An angst-ridden fable about an Asian daughter's feelings about her mother's cooking and all the symbolic nuances attached? I've heard that one before.
The story usually begins with a young woman (who is usually dealing with an identity crisis or some other kind of personal predicament) watching her mother in the kitchen. She describes how deftly her mother slices up green onions or how patiently she waits for the right moment to add an ingredient to a homemade soup that fills the kitchen with aromas that evoke childhood memories. The story then segues into the young woman recalling some sort of pivotal moment or trauma she experienced as a child (Sorry folks, but my eyes are rolling here).
It usually becomes painfully obvious that the story is really an allegory about her relationship with her mother and her coming to grips with who she is.
The first time I came across these fuzzy, sentimental stories, I admit I bought into them. I felt pangs of sympathy and understanding.
A daughter's relationship with her mother, whether good or bad, is usually a significant one. Mothers sometimes seem to possess the omnipotent power to lift their daughters up to the greatest heights or crush them with a single word or sentence. It doesn't matter if the daughter is an adult and a professional with maybe children of her own.
My own mother is able to send me into a flurry of self-doubt with the simple question, "Are you wearing that to the event?"
She doesn't live with me, but that doesn't stop me from hearing her voice in my head as I get ready. My husband simply stares at the giant pile of "inappropriate" clothing I've abandoned on our bed, as I rush out the door to wherever I'm going.
I know mother-daughter themes are universal, but what bothers me about those sentimental kitchen stories is the added ingredient that because they are Asian mothers, they have mysterious, ancient culinary powers to symbolize their daughters' lives in a single dish. I know my life isn't a pot of kimchi chige.
So here's my story about a mom in the kitchen:
It's a holiday or special event, and I'm the host.
My mother is planning to cook the meal and comes over to my house with bags full of Korean ingredients that I don't stock in my own kitchen.
She takes over my kitchen.
I ask if I can help, and I'm usually relegated to washing the vegetables or chopping them.
My mother laughs at my thickly sliced zucchini.
I make a face and stick my tongue out at her.
We gossip about the entire family while we're cooking.
She tells me the ingredients for a sauce she's making. She's told me the recipe a dozen times. I vow to write it down, since I can never remember it on my own later, but never do.
She asks me to taste the soup. Needs more salt.
My mom is a whirlwind. We argue, we laugh, we complain. We talk about things that have been bothering us. Sometimes we cry.
There's a big mess in the kitchen, but that's okay. We'll tackle that later.

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