The Memory Maker

A year later, my family and I meet up for dim sum at a local Chinese restaurant, where the only thing missing is my mother

Absolute, utter chaos.

The first thing I notice is the lack of parking. On a recent Sunday morning, we enter a jam-packed parking lot, many spots taken by SUVs. My husband drives around for a few minutes, passing several confused drivers before saying, “Let me drop you guys off.”

My kids and I exit the car while he goes off in search of a place to park. We walk toward a small, strip-mall style building, the words ‘Excellent Cuisine’ emblazoned above us like the star of a Broadway show. Surrounded by small, Asian-owned businesses, including a bubble tea shop and an acupuncturist, Excellent is the kind of place that offers the best of both worlds: cheap, fast and excellent Chinese food, banquet style, in a convenient location just minutes from a freeway exit in southeast Portland.

Excellent is also the place that we went for dim sum exactly a year ago in April, ten months before my mom died. As we sit and wait, my sister-in-law jokes, “If Mom was here, she’d have gone to the bathroom three times by now.” I laugh because it’s absolutely true. Like me, my mom could not go for a single hour without a potty break.

We all make small talk as we wait for a table, groups of people passing by us every ten minutes or so like a blur. Forty five minutes later, it’s ready. We’re guided by a waiter all clad in black as she takes us to our table in the far back corner, just one table away from the one we sat at last year. No sooner had we all sit before another waiter wearing a white button up and black pants pushes a dim sum cart in front of us.

My mouth begins to water. I do not like to make absolute statements but to me, Excellent is one of the best, if not the best dim sum place in Portland. I stare at the dim sum selections, wishing I could have all of it. But alas, that is not possible.

So we settle for varieties of xiu mai, chicken feet, some steamed bok choy and slices of Chinese barbecued pig, amongst others.

We go there not just because it’s good—well, precisely because it’s good—but also because it stirs up memories. My husband and I have gone there by ourselves with just our kids on a weekday evening, where the tables are less occupied and rowdy. On this day, it’s utter chaos. Families after families are seated at every table, and there were about 12 waiters running like a maniac back and forth. I wondered to myself: how on earth do these people keep it together? How do they communicate who needs what?

Somehow, it all works. We’ve had instances where waiters forget about us, but it doesn’t happen very often here. Granted, many of the waiters do not speak much English, so you can only use simple words like “jasmine rice” “hot tea” and “ice water.” But if you tried to describe your favorite meat dish, and how it’s braised then smothered in something…it will get lost in translation. We find that pointing to things makes it a lot easier. So we point at the items we want, and they give it to us.

Last year, when we went to Excellent Cuisine with my oldest brother’s family, things were a little different. My mom was still around, for one, and two, there was one less member in our family. My great-nephew Mason was born a month after that meal, and this year, he joins us at our table in his highchair, almost a year old and the happiest baby you can possibly imagine. He smiles a lot and likes to make noises as if he’s making a statement and he wants you to agree with him.

My mom loved Mason, and she probably would have sat next to him and fed him rice soaked with soy sauce while his real grandmother (my sister-in-law) sitting across the table would say, “No, he’s not ready for that yet!” My mom used to feed my daughter oatmeal as soon as she was old enough to eat solids. There’s a picture of the two of them doing exactly that, my daughter’s face happy and curious as she waited for my mother to spoon the mush into her mouth.

I never particularly liked oatmeal, or mushy foods for that matter, until my late twenties. Back then, I was working at a credit union (the local equivalent of a bank) and was always in a hurry every morning. So I’d pack a bag of oatmeal to eat in the employee’s break room as soon as I got to work. During this time, I’d chat with whoever was there, if anyone was there at all. The break room had bowls and utensils and a sink where you could wash your own dishes.

Now, whenever I eat oatmeal, which is most mornings, I think of my mom. I think about how she used to eat oatmeal practically every morning when she lived at her apartment, and even before that. If I close my eyes, I can imagine her standing in her kitchen, pouring the rolled oats into a small pot filled with half a cup of water and stirring it until it becomes a certain consistency. Then she’d pour the oatmeal into one of her unmistakable mismatched bowls that she’d collected from her days working for an airline catering company and add a dollop of raw, unfiltered honey into the bowl; if she didn’t have any honey, then turbinado sugar instead. She would eat sitting at her small dining room table, the one lined with old newspaper and advertisements she received in the mail on top of (very nice) floral tablecloth that I bought for her many months ago. This simple morning ritual is the same thing I do most mornings, except I have little patience so I cook my oatmeal in the microwave instead and eat on a large IKEA wooden table lined with nothing but a jigsaw puzzle.

It’s a little scary, to be honest, to do the same thing that your parent used to do, to say to yourself, “I am becoming my mom/dad.” But rituals is what we have. It’s what binds us, how memories are made and sustained. It’s an image that you can conjure up in your mind should the need arise.

I eat this year’s meal at Excellent Cuisine while thinking of my mom. I remember last year, she sat with a contemplative look on her face, as if observing everyone. She didn’t eat very much. Instead, she kept putting food on my kids’ plates. My son was on her left, my daughter on her right. She was always like that. But then again, a lot of Asian moms are. They fill their child’s plate with (the best) dishes first before taking a bite of their own. Which is a bit ironic, given that in my culture, it’s a sign of respect to invite elders to eat first.

So much has happened in the past year. A birth, a death, a business, a wedding, and everything in between. Going out for dim sum is a celebration of such events. It also means that you’ll walk away with less money (as it can be expensive given that each dish is between $3-6) but a fuller, happier stomach, so much so that you might not even eat dinner because you just ate enough to last you through two meals.

Sure enough, we were still full come dinner time. Not a bad deal after all.

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Did you miss my last post?

Remembering My Mother