November 13th: An Ode to Homesickness
Glancing at the recipe, I slice the poblanos from end to end, the emerald skin limply unfurling beneath the knife’s edge. Sifting my fingers through the shredded asadero, I contemplate how generously to fill each chile with cheese. Since the directions caution against overflowing, I suppress my tendency for overabundance - a gluttony that blossomed at the White Swan Hotel in 2003. Only in agnostic melancholy do I recollect the orphanage in Guangzhou, its bland monotony of smog and gilded red books. To celebrate a belated Gotcha Day this year, I may attempt to bake our chocolate raspberry cake. Every November 13th, my parents and I would reminisce over my corduroy overalls and the tangerine farewell gift. Toted across the Atlantic Ocean to New Mexico, I tumbled headfirst into southwestern culture. Food became my serotonin, measured in bowls of frito pie school lunches and honey drizzled sopaipillas. After separating 6 large eggs, I hand-whisk the egg whites until they resemble renaissance clouds (emulating Michelangelo’s cherubs). When I was younger, I would perch on the granite counter, my mouth open for the occasional spoonful of cookie dough. Despite salmonella risks, Mom and I would scrape out raw dollops for nibbling, much to the chagrin of my father and his cookie addiction. Our ritual recreated the baking scene in Mommy Far, Mommy Near, an adoption story that I still revisit when experiencing an existential crisis (e.g. my imposter syndrome, signing up for the ASA mailing list, Chinese character tattoo of my middle name, etc.). My favorite passage will always be “So I lie on my mother’s tummy. Our faces touch. I wait until I can hear my mommy’s heart beating. I say, ‘Look.’ We look. No songs, no kisses. Just look. In a deep voice, I say, ‘My mother.’ Just as deep, my mommy says, ‘My daughter.’”
