Story by Andrew Lam.
“Why don’t you call me anymore?” she asks on the phone, her voice plaintive, barely above a whisper. “No one remembers me, no one cares if I die.”
“Mother, I called 3 days ago.”
“Liar! That never happened.”
It happened. She just no longer can recall.
Six years ago, my mother, who is now 82, was diagnosed with dementia and Alzheimer’s, and her short-term memories are almost non-existent. Unless something very dramatic-death, divorce, an accident, or a marriage-happens to those very dear to her, she retains nothing of the immediate past. She has, too, become paranoid and house-bound. The once vivacious, outgoing, and beautiful woman she was has become frail and depressed. Though my two older siblings and I visit my parents in Fremont practically every week, as we all live in the Bay Area, my mother nevertheless feels isolated and confused due to her increasing dementia.
But when it comes to the distant past, and especially when it involves cooking, it is another story altogether. “Mother,” I say her on the phone, changing the subject. “How do you make banh tom co ngu?” It’s a Vietnamese fried shrimp cake made with yam. “Well,” she responds with no hesitation, “you need both rice powder and starch. You need to make sure it’s of equal parts and you need to keep the head on the shrimp, that’s the best part. You need to have good, light oil.” She rattles off about the recipe with increasing confidence. “Be careful, if you use too much starch, it doesn’t get crunchy.”
I already know how to make banh tom co ngu. In fact, I learned dozens of dishes from her by simply watching or listening and occasionally assisting her in the kitchen over the years. I asked because I simply wanted to hear her talk with confidence, to have her in her element, and not in her self-pitying voice that dominates her outlook in old age-a mother abandoned.
I want my mother, that is, at her best: cooking and providing for her family.
Ever since I could remember, there was always some sort of party or another every week in our house during the war in Vietnam. My father, a high-ranking army officer in the ARVN (Army Republic of Vietnam), always had important guests at our house. Since I was four, I remember Vietnamese ministers, generals, visiting dignitaries, and yes, even American stars-Robert Mitchum, John Wayne, and Jennifer Jones-had grace at our dining tables during the Vietnam War. And Mother-with the help of servants-would always be cooking and entertaining Father’s guests. There was a war going on, but people were caring and the kitchen was always crowded with people.
If not, it was for birthdays, death anniversaries, Vietnamese Lunar New Year, or Christmas Eve, where mother’s tireless cooking made our lives luxurious, celebratory, and comfortable. I remember often waking up with the sounds of pots and pans clanging and the chopping on the cutting board down in the kitchen, and on the weekend, the delicious aroma of mother’s pho soup or bun bo hue, a spicy pork knuckle soup in beef and lemongrass broth, would infuse the entire house.
Her dishes were also elaborate. There’s the fish dip that she made out of sea bass, dills, celery, and homemade aioli, to be eaten with shrimp crackers or fried bread. The steamed fish head and tail are retained, but its body is made entirely of fish dip mixed with aioli, its scales made of colorful carrots and beet. Then there’s that special gourd and mushroom soup, which is served in an actual gourd. There’s also the grilled crab cake that’s served in its shell.
Mother was tireless in her creation. Later on, her repertoire expanded to include Moroccan couscous, French bouillabaisse, Spanish paella, and when she couldn’t find key ingredients, she found substitutes-turmeric for saffron, homemade sausage for Chorizo, and shitake for porcini.
In Dalat, Vietnam, a French-built hillside station full of Lycee and villas, she taught a free pastry class, showing our neighbors how to make pate chaud, choux a la creme, eclaire, and buche de noel. My mother was mostly a self-taught chef, though due to father’s many foreign guests, she later took cooking classes with some of the best chefs in Saigon to expand her repertoire.
It is a sad thing to see her so frail, forgetful, depressed, and no longer capable of cooking. She can barely make rice and heat soup.
“I don’t know what happened,” she said one day when I came to visit and wanted to cook for my parents. “Someone stole all my knives.”
I kept searching and finally found three knives hidden under the sofa’s cushions. It was depressing: Her fear of robbers and thieves is overwhelming her, to the point where she feels the need to defend herself with the knives she once used to create such fabulous, sumptuous meals.
Still, for the appetizer, I made the classic Vietnamese spring roll. I mixed pork with fish sauce, black pepper, crabmeat, green onion, and vermicelli. I brought out rice papers and warm water. “Let me help,” she says. She got up from the sofa where she often lies listless, watching Korean soap operas.
Though she could never cook an entire meal again, she is her old self as she works. Her bony fingers are guided by muscle memories. And as she rolled her spring rolls-a scoop of mixed ground pork with crabmeat and a piece of wet rice paper-she begun to remember. “Back when we were in Hue, I remember making dinner for 25 guests,” she says. “Mrs. Ngoc, she would send her daughters. My gosh, that woman had six of them. And they all worked so hard.” Mother starts laughing.
She remembered the women crowding her kitchen and how they gossiped as they worked. One young woman had a great voice and often sang. They shared recipes.
I encouraged her to continue to remember. I gave her more rice papers and we continued to roll cha gio together. We made more than we could possibly eat, but that doesn’t matter. We rolled back the clock and talked about food, cooking, and the past.
Andrew Lam is an editor with New America Media and author of the “Perfume Dreams: Reflections on the Vietnamese Diaspora,” and “East Eats West: Writing in Two Hemispheres.” His latest book is “Birds of Paradise Lost,” a short story collection, was published in 2013 and won a Pen/Josephine Miles Literary Award in 2014 and a finalist for the California Book Award and shortlisted for the William Saroyan International Prize for Writing.
This story is a part of Off the Menu: Asian America, a multimedia project between the Center for Asian American Media and KQED, featuring a one-hour PBS primetime special by award-winning filmmaker, Grace Lee (American Revolutionary: The Evolution of Grace Lee Boggs), original stories and web content.
Main image: Lunch at Andrew Lam’s uncle’s villa in Saigon in 1972. Lam is in his mother’s arms. Photo courtesy of the author.
