My mother is adorable. She’s lived in the US for over 35 years now. She has authored, edited or translated a half-dozen books — in English! But she still sends me e-mails with lines like this, in her recipe for Japanese curry, from ten minutes ago:
“In the same flying pan, add some more oil and quickly fly carrot, potato, onion, diced; and pepper, salt (other veggie, such as cerery, is also good; a bay leaf if you have one).”
Frying pan, mom. Frying pan! Celery!
I don’t know why, but it’s this kind of thing that endears me to my family the most, tugs at my heartstrings. The perfectly normal and understandable behavior that just happens to play into silly stereotypes (belly solly, sah!) even as it makes me slap my forehead. It’s not like I think confusing the English letters “r” and “l” is some kind of problem or deficit — after all, most of you probably can’t pronounce ryu, the word for dragon in Japanese. (And yes, the name of the guy from the Street Fighter series.)
Maybe it’s because it reminds me of when I was a kid and I had to proofread her galleys for little slip-ups like these. Maybe it’s because it’s just an essential part of the second-generation immigrant experience. You’re a kid, you’re an American because you grew up watching Saturday morning cartoons and saying “duh, dookie brains.” And you’re kind of embarrassed sometimes, around some other people, that your folks talk funny or eat weird food. But you’re proud too, even if you don’t realize it. And then you grow up, and realize a lot more about what it all means and how it’s part of who you are.
I’m sure you all have stories too.
Hmm, should I post the whole recipe? It might be a family secret, but the secret mostly seems to have to do with the weird crap she throws in at the end. OK… it’s behind the cut!
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