Sesame Chicken

A mother’s love language is in her cooking. A love language I thought were little gestures but as I grow older I’ve come to realize just how not so little these little ways were. Love is in the little triangular cuts that turn apple slices into bunnies. I would chase after them on beds of white porcelain, grabbing them with my grubby fingers and biting into their heads without a second glance. Love is in the time it took to address each slice with an extra couple seconds of love, all but reduced to apple juice in my stomach. Love is in the fat chunks of meat, greedy in comparison to my mother’s plate piled high with all of the fatty pieces.

“I like the fat.” She would say.

“Lots of good collagen.”

I thought it was another Asian fad.

She knew I hated the fat.

Love was in the fresh meals she cooked. Every night without fail, something new to wow me and my younger brother’s thirsty palettes. Hours of preparation in ideating, buying the groceries, prepping, and cooking reduced to a quick 30 minute gorge as she contently reheated whatever leftovers there were from the nights before.

And there was love in every single thing we ate, from the leftovers dressed a little differently to appease our dislike of the old, to the red bell peppers because she knew I liked those better than the green and yellow ones.

Unbeknownst to us but we were feasting on our mom’s love constantly.

How can a mother’s love be so never ending and so unyielding?

My mom never fancied herself a cook despite the decades and hours of cooking she had accumulated under her belt. Whether it was a mother’s humility or just my mom’s, she grew abashed at the idea of anyone eating her cooking.

The only thing she felt confident in was her sponge cake. She was always so proud of its subtle sweetness and soft airy texture. It was the “Japanese sweetness” where it was hidden in the natural flavors of the ingredients and undressed from heavy sweeteners. She would make the whipped cream from scratch so its subtlety would complement the minimal cake and wash blueberries, and strawberries so we could decorate to our choosing.

Her sponge cake came with us whenever there was a gathering. Nestled in my mothers arm like a prize bounty.

That year, unprecedentedly, my Aunt and Uncle decided to host Easter dinner. Everyone was asked to bring dishes and I remember how my mom went home and immediately started brainstorming. Scouring through her own recipes, the internet, already nervous at the idea of other people trying her cooking. The gathering was also with my Aunt’s side of the family (we were on my Uncle’s) of whom we met maybe once or twice, adding to the pressure with the presence of strangers.

My mom settled on sesame chicken. She had never cooked it but was so excited to try as she was with any new dish she found on the Japanese internet. In Japanese she would excitedly show me what she was going to try cooking, swiping through the photos as if they were her own.

My mom tried the recipe a weekend before the dinner. I remember how nervous she was to have my younger brother and I try it but how eager she was for our judgement. Her face so hopeful, as if she had become a little kid again, anxiously waiting for her portion of the Show and Tell.

The chicken was so tender and juicy. Although some would consider it unassuming on the outside, the glazed seasoning stuck to the coating of the pebbled skin like a thin lacquer. Just the perfect blend of sweet and savory basked with the nutty taste of sesame. I remember my strong assurances to my mother that of course everyone would love it.

How could they not?

The day-of, she made it a couple of hours before we left so that it was fresh and still warm. When we got there, their counter was already amassed with a variety of different dishes. Sides, appetizers, mains. Even the cuisine was a mix of American food and Korean, proudly showing off our cultural recipes in a variety of colors and ingredients. My mom put her chicken with the rest and the simplicity in its presentation made it stand out from the bright and textured dishes. A singular Japanese dish in the sea of Korean American dishes and I often wondered if that was how my mom felt with my dad’s side of the family.

The dinner was buffet style as everyone armed with plates and utensils filed in line to grab portions from each dish. By the time everyone’s plates were full with scoopings of each dish, I stood with my mom off to the side. All of the dishes were mostly gone and yet my mother’s chicken stood noticeably full. There was a small gap where a couple of legs were missing that now laid on my plate, my mom’s, my brother’s, and my dad’s.

No one else had grabbed any.

I can’t quite put it into writing how much my heart hurts. Even years after this experience has happened and I recall this moment in time, I have never quite felt my heart shatter as it did so in that moment. It bled so much with hurt that if someone had cut me on the spot, I wouldn’t have bled blood, but pain.

I could see that my mom was visibly embarrassed. Every anxiety she had pushed aside to gather the courage to make this dish for the family was reawakened and brought into fruition. It felt so wrong that everyone was milling about as normal. My cousins and my aunt noticed as well and they empathetically made sure to put some on their plate, my cousin even remarking to everyone how good it was, but in that moment, their offering of assistance felt more like pity and the product of ridicule.

I felt my mother’s pain and shame as if it were my own. As if all of her blood running through my own body had tuned to her frequency.

My mother put on a brave smile, never one to truly show how she was feeling in public. A trait that I have come to realize how much strength it truly takes.

We took the leftovers home and no matter my praise of the chicken in the car, she remained silent for the rest of the ride home.

Later that night I stood in front of my parent’s bedroom. I wanted to say something but in the car it still felt a wound too fresh to mention forthright. I paused, my hand on the doorknobs as I heard her sobbing on the other side.

I have only seen my mom cry twice.

The first time when my Grandma passed away, and now this night.

I stood frozen. All of the hurt I had taken in as my own, now boiling into rage and this deep shame that I couldn’t quite grasp. The pain of rejection. The pain of seeing a loved one hurt. The pain of feeling isolated in one’s culture. The pain of the love you put into something, trampled on and disregarded.

I could hear her talking to one of her friends on the phone in Japanese.

“もう二度と誰かのために料理はしない。”

A vow to never cook for anybody outside of our immediate family.

She never made that sesame chicken again.

My mother is more frugal with her love now and I have now better understood how so much of her goes into each dish she makes for us. How each flavor is loud in its “Japanese subtlety” much like her love.

I hope one day she’ll make sesame chicken again.