Lamentations

Girls – End of the World (Skeeter Davis cover)

Anthony Bourdain’s most recent excursion into Central Vietnam and its staple city of Hanoi was an absolute pleasure. This episode, compared to the other Vietnam episodes really glorified the food. Subtexts were briefly mentioned, but were never extrapolated to the fullest extent. Nor was it as horribly gimmicky as the Vietnam episode in No Reservation’s first season. Witnessing Vietnam become some cheesy James Bond plot was hard to stomach.

It also brought some perspective, something Bourdain tends to leave behind. Tony finds himself at a temple, with nuns that practice a strict daily vegetarianism. This segment rang extremely close to home, as I find myself a spectator of similar action in my own family.

My mom became a full vegetarian, coincidentally, after I left home for college. I didn’t know/she didn’t tell me until about 2 months into the semester. At first I thought it was a gimmick. She had done this numerous times. It’s just a part of being Buddhist. I was fine with “Vegetarian Days.” I liked them. Gave me an excuse to eat copious amounts of mushrooms and tofu, both of which, I couldn’t live without.

But it wasn’t just a day, or a few days. It’s been 5 months since I found out she was going vegetarian “indefinitely”. Keep in mind, this was the same mother that had cravings for In-n-Out every time we passed one. The same mother who demanded that we buy a Costco pizza every time we went to Costco (Partially the reason why we opted to go to Sam’s Club more frequently). This was my mom, whose favorite dish in the world was Bun rieu, a noodle soup with crab and shrimp “meatballs”. This goes against everything I know about nature and how things operate. You don’t just give up something you’ve had your whole life. There are forces that act upon you, and you are then forced to relinquish all that you are. It’s always those forces. And those forces don’t stop until they’ve torn your family apart.

But of course, my mom denies every word of that. She says it was for personal reasons. Her newly earned “devout status” in her Buddhist circle, she claims, has nothing to do with her decision. Her religion, which allegedly stresses the importance of vitality in all souls, just about killed any remnants of soul in our familial unit.

I’m not fighting the religion as much as I’m fighting for the faith that my family has held for as long as I can remember. My brother and I were raised under the belief that food is the epicenter of everything important. If you knew how to cook, you would be able to live under almost any circumstances. If you knew how to cook, girls would like you more. [Thanks, Dad.] If you enjoy your food, you enjoy your friends that much more. Because food promotes the concept of sharing; sharing thoughts, ideas, and mutual pleasure. It is everything. My mom didn’t share the enthusiasm that the males in the household exhibited, but she was, nonetheless, the glue. She would eat the leftovers at the dinner table while everyone else ate what she had prepared. She would prepare the plain and ornery dishes that got us through the week while everyone was busy with work or studies, while weekends were spent eating specialty dishes. My dad specialized in seafood and exotic meals from other regions of the world, while my mom specialized in noodle soups typical of southern and central Vietnamese cuisine.

Yet, seemingly overnight, that all changed. A typical family dinner doesn’t involve a table for 4, only a table of 1. My mom hardly ever eats dinner anymore, and my dad is stuck eating dinner alone, armed with only a few cans of Budweiser and Vietnamese soap operas keeping him company. That’s because for most nights, nighttime, but more importantly dinnertime, means time for prayer at the temple. The days when she does stay home, she tells my dad she isn’t hungry, because she had a feast at work. She ends up just snacking on cherry tomatoes, or fruit. While my dad readies the table for dinner, my mom is outside watering the plants, unresponsive to my dad’s cries to come in and eat with him. Without my brother or myself around, my dad, more and more finds himself eating alone. Isn’t that the most depressing thing you’ve ever heard? A husband can’t even enjoy a meal with the love of his life for 29 years. For as long as I’ve been alive, he’s said that he’s never enjoyed a meal that didn’t have his wife by his side.

The temple has done a lot for my mom. She’s muscled her way through menopause, and other emotional factors that have left her in a state of depression. She’s been able to fight through most of it. Buddhism has given her some peace of mind, which I cannot be anything but happy for. But it has, for lack of better phrasing, torn our family apart. Sometimes when I make conversation, I feel as though I’m talking to someone stricken with an unflinching dogma, and I just don’t want it to be true. I thought Buddhism was supposed to calm one’s inner spirit, but my mom has, since her “transformation”, worn her emotions on her sleeve, and has really fostered an air of instability within the family and herself. It’s heartbreaking.

Now, if you were wondering if she still cooked for us despite her vegetarianism, she does. The one thing that hasn’t changed is her respect for our natural desire for meat and blood, and all of that horrible sinful goodness. At the very least, that makes me happy, because even her newfound dogma hasn’t clouded her sense of maternal responsibility. She still handles and cooks meat, but she does not taste test anything she cooks. This is a problem. Her dishes have become unevenly seasoned, at times overbearing, and at times, harshly underseasoned. Her veteran eye and years of preparing the same dishes has helped a bit, but “mom’s food” hasn’t hit the mark consistently for a while now.

Jeff Mangum – Sign The Dotted Line

That’s the least of my concerns though. This entire blog was formed on the basis of my upbringing, and the values that I hold dear to me. The most important being that dinnertime is sacred. No questions asked. It’s not how other families do it, but for our family, it is. We eat together. We sit, we talk, we laugh, we eat. It’s the one time we all get to enjoy the company of one another and embrace in a love that wears no mask. And even as a kid, I really took our family’s understanding of dinnertime to heart, even though it meant social suicide. If I were to be out at a friend’s house, I usually went home at around 5 or 6 at the latest, because that was dinnertime. I never got to see my friends that much outside of school, but I was willing to sacrifice that because I didn’t want to let my parents down.

Now, it seems to have an even stronger pull on me. Times for my mom and dad will never be the same as they were. The 4 of us, once a familiar sight, has become a special occasion, usually ending in a spectacular feast. To say that food keeps our family together isn’t a stretch. I’d even consider it a fact. It always has. That dinner table had incomprehensible power.

With my mother slowly shifting her allegiance to her religion, however, the dinner table has become a site of remembrance. As my dad and I eat in silence with my mom away, I can’t help but think we’re remembering the same defining moments in our family’s history.

Our family was never one to eat out much. With my mom’s vegetarianism, there is even less of an excuse. She tries, though. Saturday afternoons would be the time where we’d readily admit there was nothing to eat at home, and have a bowl of pho or rice plates just to keep us going until dinnertime. Even when there’s nothing to eat at home, and even with my mom imploring me to get ready to go out for pho, I am forced to opt for the dreaded kimchi flavored instant noodles in the pantry. Every time, she has a look on her face as though she has no idea why I put myself through it. But it’s clear. My dad and I can’t stand the sight of our family going out to a restaurant, with 2 bowls of pho, and my mom sitting there, idly sipping at a cup of soy milk that costs 2 dollars too much. She says it doesn’t bother her, but it bothers us. It disturbs us, shakes us to the core.

“Mom, I’ll eat pho with you as long as I’m not the only one eating.”

Who’s at fault here? Is it us; my dad, my brother, me? Are we to blame for not being able to accept her newly directed life choice? Are we sentimental fools unwilling to change? Are we rattled because the rock in our family has slowly drifted downstream? Is it her fault? Her absolute refusal to explain her beliefs. Her refusal to explain why she turned vegetarian in the first place?

I don’t care. And as badly as I want to lambaste religion, I won’t. Because I’m nowhere near as interested in tearing down a religion as I am in bringing my family back together again. This is personal, yes, and is in no way as severe as family issues that others have to deal with daily. But there is nothing more important than family, and if there is any signs of seams slowly unfastening, it’s a time to start worrying.

There’s a time for everything, and I think it’s about time I have my family back.