Stinky House

I remember distinctly the first time I wanted to punch another human being in the gut, really hard. F was a little girl who lived near me growing up. She often commented loudly about my flat face, my pigtails, my dark skin, the fact that my parents spoke "funny" at the bus stop. She was a tad younger and also my next door neighbor's best friend so I tolerated her. We would be thrown together during the occasional play dates. One time we had to come to my house for some reason. I remember my mom was cooking. F exclaimed loudly "EWW, your house STINKS!". I turned red and started sweating from shame and embarrassment. I thought maybe someone had just pooped and didn't turn on the fan or that my stinky little brother let one rip, or perhaps I should have taken the garbage out before I went on my playdate. Then I realized that F was referring to the food cooking in my home. The spice of the Thai chilli's, pungent smell of salted crab and baby shrimp, the distinct scent of fish sauce, and roasted chicken spiced with crushed garlic and pepper and doused with fish sauce, and the warm fragrant smell of khao niew being steamed.

I was 8. I wanted to be like everyone else in my immediate world. I wanted to be white, Mormon, and preferably blonde. I didn't want to eat papaya salad, I wanted my mom to make Jell-O in fancy molds. I wanted her to open cans of vetegables instead of going to the garden every day or driving across all of tarnation to get a basil leaf for the evening meal. I didn't want Bahn Mi for my cold lunch, I wanted a damn PB&J. I didn't want to serve shrimp chips for my birthday party, I wanted Doritos. And, please have it duly noted that I wanted my name to Evelyn. I thought it sounded fancier than a past tense of a verb.

That day I chose peace instead of violence as an answer to ignorance. I like to think even then I was a peace loving soul, but let's be honest. My mother was in the next room. I wasn't about to get my own hide in a bind for the likes of F. I let her comment slide and we continued on with life. Although, I never got around to liking her more than I like gnats.

Every time I go home or my mother takes over my kitchen when she visits, I will come into the house and think, Oh, that smell. But instead of being sweaty with angst from wanting to belong. I am comforted and centered knowing I am home and right where I belong, with my mother cooking the same food that nourished my growing body as a child realizing now somehow it nourishes my soul, as well.

Soon, I will take my babies home for an extended visit where we will let the majesty of the Wasatch range awe us. We will frolick in the canyons as the cottonwood's turn orange and red.  We will catch up with old friends and visit old haunts. Most of all, we will wake up to khao niew being steamed for the morning meal. Just like it was every day of my childhood.