Remembering My Father Through the Foods He Loved
We can learn so much about a person from the foods they loved
My father is tending to the ginger root. Carefully, he trims and grates it. Then he slices cloves of garlic until they are the tiniest slivers of flavor. The broccoli has been rinsed, chopped, and patiently waits for its dip into the sizzling oil. Afterward, it will be quickly shocked in an ice bath — this makes sure ensures the broccoli will be a vivid green and still crunchy in my father’s beef and broccoli.
Dad’s wok is on the burner, getting hot and seasoned. I’m sitting at the kitchen table watching, not really helping but keeping him company all the same. He’s making some authentic Cantonese cuisine, which is funny as he’s Austrian, not Chinese.
He speaks English with a British accent, not a German one. It’s as if all these things are meant to hide his real identity — who my father really is, but it’s his food that tells his story, even if he doesn’t.
If it weren’t for his cooking, I wouldn’t have known that he lived in China. The dishes my father prepared and the foods he enjoyed eating were clues to his personality and history. Now that he’s gone, I can remember him when I smell, taste, or see these foods.
