The Tie that Binds

I cannot seem to wash off the stink from the fermented anchovy sauce my mother made last night for the lovely spring roll dinner she. I keep smelling my hands confused at why my mouth continues to salivate when the smell does bother me. I suppose it is just one of those enigmas I house again.

I woke up around 4am hung the fuck over from the two bottles of wine the night before. Noted: Mixing red and white was a bad idea. Making breakfast was a mission all in itself. I was supposed to work since my deadline is today but it wasn’t working out. I just ended up passing out until 2pm. Now I am left with little time to blog or work before I have to go be an adult.

Last night seemed to be a hit though. After work Matt came to scoop me up to go over to my parent’s house for dinner. This was the first official meeting. I riled up nerves for him most of the day, making coy jokes about my parents being hardasses. They typically are. Very hard to appease, yet last night I suppose I was more nervous my two world were colliding and projecting it on to him.

He stood there awkwardly most of the night and helped when asked. Not much was said until we sat down at dinner. I suppose the fact that he enjoyed the poignant yet comforting Asian aromas permeating through the house, and ate everything from the roasted sesame seeded, raw veal with sweeten ginger fish sauce to the steamed speckled trout spring rolls glazed with the fermented anchovies this made it difficult for my traditional Asian parents not to respect him. After all, it is a rarity for an American born, whiter than white man who has never even step foot in Asia to thoroughly enjoy such ethnic dishes.

I am proud of him.

He has been able to stomach a lot of the things I love most. Periwinkles, fish spring rolls, peasant style soups, all of the various fermented sauces and much, much more.

Last night he really tried. My mother, father and their local priest were all speaking in our native language Vietnamese most of the dinner. I tried to translate most of the conversation however failed to do so after the third glass of wine. He did well keeping up with the Jones. He does so well.

Mother invited him over Sunday to spend the day with them. This should be interesting. They’ve already offered to gift us some of their family jewels, I am wondering what is up their sleeves next. I suppose since I am getting older they are expecting marriage some time before I turn 30. Mother actually set me aside to ask me what was going on with B. I laughed and replied, “Nothing has ever happened between us, nothing will.” She nodded approving my response.

“Good. You need stability. He brought you great disparity and emotional despair.” was her only reply.

How the fuck does my FOBish mother know the term disparity and how does she know to use it in a sentence?! Ugh, little by little I am catching my mother’s advancements via technology. It is such an odd realization. Anyhow, I digress. I woke up this morning realizing I am a woman. I am a completely separate human from my progenitors. They finally respect me as an individual apart from their morals, wishes, and beliefs.

This is a mile stone compared to how overbearing my mother has been since the dawn of time. They approve of Matt. They approve of my life style. They approve of my chosen line of work. They approve. No more questioning why I drink so much wine. No more questioning my moral obligations or my taste in men. Just love, respect and swapping recipes.

This is beautiful.

No one ever tells you when you’ve reached a certain age you sometimes become this recipe swapping woman. You swap them with your mother, sister and your lover’s mother and sister. You canned things, you pickle things, then you swap the goods. You dote on your yummy adventurous concoctions and swap the goods. You test each other’s recipes, and you swap the goods.

I am going to make a great housewife someday. Just swapping and cooking, and cleaning, and blowing, and fucking. Ahhhhhhhmazing.

 

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