Read Online Stealing Buddha's Dinner by Bich Minh Nguyen - Free Book Online
Authors: Bich Minh Nguyen
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Lik-m-Aid, Now and Later, Gobstoppers, gummy worms, Nerds, and Jolly Ranchers. I dreamed of taking it all, plus the freezer full of popsicles and nutty, chocolate-coated ice cream drumsticks. I dreamed of Little Debbie, Dolly Madison, Swiss Miss, all the bakeries presided over by prim and proper girls.
When Rosa cooked on some weekend nights she kept to a repertoire of sloppy joes made with ketchup, tacos with ground beef flavored with spices from the cupboard, meat loaf tinged with cumin, Mexican rice, goulash, pot roast cooked in a pressure cooker until the meat was soft and stringy, and her specialty dish of sopa âground beef, stewed tomatoes, and egg noodles cooked in a skillet until the noodles burned. These were sensible, no-waste foods. But she wasnât immune to convenience, sometimes buying boxes of instant mashed potatoes or scalloped potatoes, whose hard slices looked just like plastic before they got baked in seasoning mix and milk. Rosa would also consent to a few cans of Beefaroni, frozen Banquet pot pies, and boxes of brandless macaroni and cheese. I was always begging her to buy the boxed lasagna kit from Chef Boyardee. I loved to assemble the lasagna, careful to spread the sauce and cheese so each layer contained equal allocations. If no one was looking I would eat a cold half spoonful of the sweet, beef-tinted sauce. I loved to sniff the grated cheese and let a pinch of it dissolve on my tongue. It was a sharper, smellier smell than the Colby and generic singles Rosa occasionally bought; usually, though, we just wore down the brick of government cheese she got a few times a year from the surplus pile at the Hispanic Institute. She drew the line at Hamburger Helper. Despite my private opinion, she believed she didnât need such a helper and certainly not at those prices.
As with clothes shopping, sales trumped all. I believed she would have fed us Cracker Jacks and Ding Dongs every day if they had been on permanent markdown. She also had clear preferences, like olive loaf instead of bologna, orange Faygo instead of Crush, raisin cookies instead of chocolate chip. She sprinkled wheat germ on grapefruit and bought maple sugar oatmeal over peaches and cream. These small differences accumulated within my growing stockpile of shame and resentment, as if Rosa herself were preventing me from fitting in and being like everyone else. I wrinkled my face at her sopa and the mound of rice she served with shards of dry chicken. I scowled at almost everything we ate, even Noiâs pho, shrimp stews, and curries. I wanted to savor new food, different food, white food. I was convinced I was falling far behind on becoming American, and then what would happen to me? I would be an outcast the rest of my days.
But Rosa did not want to be like the Vander Wals next door. She called their midwestern dinners bland, sticking out her tongue for emphasis. She might cook a pot roast, but it was differentâ richer, she insisted, with real flavor. White American food was as repugnant to her as tulips and the Dutchness and conservatism they represented. Not that I understood this then. I didnât know that Rosa might have felt oppressed in this cold climate, suffocated and isolated. I hadnât arrived at that point yet. I was still in the stage of longing: all I wanted was to sit at the dinner table and eat pork chops the way my friends did. Because I could not, because our household did not, I invested such foods with power and allure.
Rosa had put an end to my fatherâs bringing home candy and gum and Pringles, but when he got a craving he pursued it. He loved Jell-O parfait from the deli aisle, sweet gherkins, braunschweiger, Chicken in a Biskit, two-liter bottles of pop, and cream-filled wafer cookies dyed pink and orange. (I tried to pit him against Rosaâs shopping, encouraging him to consider French onion dip to accompany the bargain bag of Jays, or better yet Tato Skins for their âbaked
When Rosa cooked on some weekend nights she kept to a repertoire of sloppy joes made with ketchup, tacos with ground beef flavored with spices from the cupboard, meat loaf tinged with cumin, Mexican rice, goulash, pot roast cooked in a pressure cooker until the meat was soft and stringy, and her specialty dish of sopa âground beef, stewed tomatoes, and egg noodles cooked in a skillet until the noodles burned. These were sensible, no-waste foods. But she wasnât immune to convenience, sometimes buying boxes of instant mashed potatoes or scalloped potatoes, whose hard slices looked just like plastic before they got baked in seasoning mix and milk. Rosa would also consent to a few cans of Beefaroni, frozen Banquet pot pies, and boxes of brandless macaroni and cheese. I was always begging her to buy the boxed lasagna kit from Chef Boyardee. I loved to assemble the lasagna, careful to spread the sauce and cheese so each layer contained equal allocations. If no one was looking I would eat a cold half spoonful of the sweet, beef-tinted sauce. I loved to sniff the grated cheese and let a pinch of it dissolve on my tongue. It was a sharper, smellier smell than the Colby and generic singles Rosa occasionally bought; usually, though, we just wore down the brick of government cheese she got a few times a year from the surplus pile at the Hispanic Institute. She drew the line at Hamburger Helper. Despite my private opinion, she believed she didnât need such a helper and certainly not at those prices.
As with clothes shopping, sales trumped all. I believed she would have fed us Cracker Jacks and Ding Dongs every day if they had been on permanent markdown. She also had clear preferences, like olive loaf instead of bologna, orange Faygo instead of Crush, raisin cookies instead of chocolate chip. She sprinkled wheat germ on grapefruit and bought maple sugar oatmeal over peaches and cream. These small differences accumulated within my growing stockpile of shame and resentment, as if Rosa herself were preventing me from fitting in and being like everyone else. I wrinkled my face at her sopa and the mound of rice she served with shards of dry chicken. I scowled at almost everything we ate, even Noiâs pho, shrimp stews, and curries. I wanted to savor new food, different food, white food. I was convinced I was falling far behind on becoming American, and then what would happen to me? I would be an outcast the rest of my days.
But Rosa did not want to be like the Vander Wals next door. She called their midwestern dinners bland, sticking out her tongue for emphasis. She might cook a pot roast, but it was differentâ richer, she insisted, with real flavor. White American food was as repugnant to her as tulips and the Dutchness and conservatism they represented. Not that I understood this then. I didnât know that Rosa might have felt oppressed in this cold climate, suffocated and isolated. I hadnât arrived at that point yet. I was still in the stage of longing: all I wanted was to sit at the dinner table and eat pork chops the way my friends did. Because I could not, because our household did not, I invested such foods with power and allure.
Rosa had put an end to my fatherâs bringing home candy and gum and Pringles, but when he got a craving he pursued it. He loved Jell-O parfait from the deli aisle, sweet gherkins, braunschweiger, Chicken in a Biskit, two-liter bottles of pop, and cream-filled wafer cookies dyed pink and orange. (I tried to pit him against Rosaâs shopping, encouraging him to consider French onion dip to accompany the bargain bag of Jays, or better yet Tato Skins for their âbaked
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