4DreamsSometimes Scary, Always Interesting
“Mmm…I like it.”
At one year old, those were my first words. I was sitting in a high chair, being fed spoonfuls of vanilla custard, and my tiny taste buds were so excited I was moved to speak for the first time. In a sentence, no less.
Food was a daily adventure in my childhood, a way to explore without going anywhere. In elementary school, I packed my own lunch full of American junk food to trade with the first-gen kids in my class whose parents had meticulously packed them delicacies from their home countries. I traded Doritos for kimbap, Korean sushi filled with a rainbow of vegetables like crunchy pickled daikon sprinkled with sesame seeds. I offered up Oreos in exchange for a warming chicken curry served in a tiffin, courtesy of my friend’s Indian mother. I gobbled Mexican cemitas—spicy pork sandwiches on a fluffy bolillo roll in exchange for my Capri-Sun.
I have no idea why my parents asked no questions when I sent them to Costco as a seven-year-old requesting nothing but processed junk food to pack as my school lunch, but all I can say is that it was a different time. As long as I was growing, didn’t ask them to make lunch for me, and didn’t have scurvy, it was a win.
It’s funny how we all crave what we don’t have. For my friends whose parents cooked, all they wanted was American junk food. All I wanted was a lovingly homemade meal.
I also wanted something approximating ...
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