Revision

拌面 and 扁肉. Those were my favorite foods as a child. Living in China, not a day went by when I didn’t get my share. Although my grandmother would laugh at my obsession she’d still comply. My childhood recollection is blurred, but I can still remember the peanut buttery taste.

This is my daily meal. Breakfast: nothing. Lunch: salad. Dinner: steamed broccoli. Not interesting but healthy, I believe. Sometimes it changes when my mother cooks. The amount of Chinese food I consume has decreased significantly since entering elementary school.

My grandmother often comments on how I’ve changed since moving to America. She tells me that I used to dance everyday. Currently, dancing is something I would never do. Food is what she remembers the most. “You don’t eat as much anymore, especially meat. You used to love eating meat!” During elementary school, on vacations I’d visit her in New York and each time she’d cook lots and lots.

Primary school. It’s the one stage that I wish didn’t remember.  Upon my arrival, my English was limited. Being the only Asian in class it was always awkward. Right after nap time, was snack time. The other kids would take out their cookies, animal shaped crackers, and chips all carefully packed into zip lock bag by their parents. From my bag I withdrew a red bag of small shrimp tailed chips. My snack was different.

“Where’s your snack?” I hated that question. When I stopped partaking in the ritual of snacking, my teacher began to give me hers. Although it was American and I would no longer be asked “what is that” I wasn’t satisfied.

Around middle school my grandmother began to predict the future. She’d still cook a lot during my stay but not as much. “Does it taste good? You’re American now. Would you rather eat pizza?”  I repeatedly told her that it was fine, but she didn’t seem to believe me. “When you get older you’re going to get sick and tired of coming here.” I immediately denied that claim. Thinking about it was enough to make me cry.

Since I started high school I have visited her about two or three times.

 My grandmother would call me a several times a month with my health dominating the conversations. “Did you eat yet? You have to eat properly. Make sure you don’t starve.” My answers were either a “yes” or “okay”. I’d say more, but I don’t know how.

Now, I only receive calls from my father asking when I get out of school.

I studied Chinese for two years, but have yet to use it at home. My attempts are always halted by the image of my accent and pronunciation being teased.

A couple months ago my mother asked me what my favorite food was. I told her I didn’t know because I don’t. But whenever she makes 拌面 I never reject it. A part of me still craves the peanut buttery taste from thirteen years ago.