Learning to Love the Smells of Home
The microwave beeped. Gingerly, I eased the glass Tupperware onto the café table, and the smell of shrimp fried rice blossomed into the room. I glanced around nervously as people looked up.
I had never brought Vietnamese leftovers to school for lunch before, and only my empty bank account had convinced me to take the rice that day. Pasta, mashed potatoes, and salad – those were all acceptable. But the fish sauce, soy sauce, and Vietnamese herbs that had no English name at the Chinatown supermarket: I would cringe of shame to be caught with such pungent smells amidst everyone else’s Lunchables or pizzas. Though my mother took such pride in her exceptional Vietnamese cooking, my embarrassment of her smelly dishes originated in elementary school and stayed with me until fourth-year university.
In the café, I took the rice back to my seat and took the lid off warily.
“Your food smells so good,” said my boyfriend staring at the dish. “Did your mom make that?”
“Yes,” I said tentatively. “Do you want a bite?”
Other people had looked up from their work.
“I can smell fried rice from a mile away,” said my friend, who was on shift behind the counter. She leaned forward to look.
“Is that fried rice? It smells delicious,” said someone else who had walked in. Another friend echoed her words.
Delighted and taken aback, I ate my lunch with a slight sense of wonder – and it was delicious. So eager to fit in, I had always been intent on keeping my Vietnamese identity repressed: refusing to wear our traditional dress to formals, distancing myself from family at school events, sticking to my public diet of 90% pasta. The odd looks and comments from my kindergarten classmates years ago had stuck with me and reinforced my dislike for Vietnamese cuisine. On days when my mom fried fish or spring rolls, the sight of people passing our house and fanning their hands in front of their noses made me eager to not inconvenience anyone with our strange aromas.
But that afternoon, with unanimous compliments coming my way, it struck me that the biggest reason for my shame was not anyone else’s discomfort. It had always been my own unjustified fear. I had a great Vietnamese lunch, and I was proud of sharing that part of me.
The following day, I returned to my usual public diet and brought chicken and mashed potatoes to the lounge. Not a single person glanced up as I carried my food from the microwave.
“Do you want a bite?” I offered my boyfriend.
“No, thank you,” he said, “I have my own lunch.”
As I proceeded to finish my food, thoughts of my mom’s shrimp fried rice drifted tantalizingly in my head.
Originally published on Project Boundless.