ofrenda

 

Jennie proposed the idea of an ofrenda potluck where we could all honor our dead people with their picture and their favorite dish. I did love this idea, and I was getting ready to be emotionally wrecked in a cathartic way.

But I also felt incredibly sad at this particular prospect of sharing food with my friends.

I don't know, myself, what Mom's favorite dish was. Dad told me she loved duck, so I held onto that. But it didn't feel like enough.

I texted my dad to ask again, extending a pleading hand through the ether, asking him to be an empathetic father, dig deep into his memories about his dead wife so he could tell his firstborn what her dead mom liked to fucking eat.

He responded, "I don't recall."

And so I'm constantly reminded in adulthood how little I know about my mother and by extension, half of myself. 

I've had a vague awareness of Day of the Dead since starting to take Spanish in the fifth grade. My teacher made pan de muerto for us, and we probably colored skulls. I confounded it with Halloween for a few years, but the purpose is clear - we honor our dead. We honor our dead with the gift of food, their favorite foods, and their favorite things. We honor them with memories and reminders of who they were.

This year we watched Coco, a classic rewatch for me when I definitely feel like crying. It brings up a lot of complicated feelings around what I know I'm missing and what I'll probably never get back. I am Miguel before he learns who his great great grandfather is, creating a hero for myself in my mind. I am Coco with fading memories because no one can share Mom's stories with me.

We have a similar holiday in Chinese culture: Tomb Sweeping Day. I remember making a little alter of clementines and white flowers and setting it outside our front door one year. I remember going to Mom's gravesite to clear the debris and arrange fresh bouquets of flowers until we moved away from Los Alamos. But I don't remember sharing stories.

I don't know when the last time was that I had a youtiao with warm soymilk. The desire to reclaim these food memories feels as heavy as my grief on some days. So when I found myself with a quiet Sunday ahead, I prepared two youtiao doughs and savory doufu nao. It's a meal I actually associate more with my dad because he is the Beijing half of me. But it's also a quintessential Chinese breakfast that I would love to have shared with my mom on a quiet weekend morning. Look Mom, I'm 30 now. I could cook you anything you'd like if you'd just tell me what you want to eat. Let me feed you now as you had fed me for nine short years.

I shared it with two friends instead, and it is in these unexpected moments that I feel light in my rootlessness. I feel okay that it wasn't you, Mom, who taught me these recipes because I'm mining new memories with the community I've managed to find and build.