5 p.m. Done. I rushed out of the classroom.
As I ran toward the bus station, my backpack kept thumping on my back as if it was cheering me on in a sprint race.
5:45 p.m. Made it. I broke my 47-minute record.
But there was no time to be complacent. Mom would be home soon so I’d better start making dinner.
A complicated menu I chose that night: Vietnamese sour soup, zucchini with tofu stew, and stir-fried kangkong. Still feeling tired after the rush home, the breeze cooled me down a bit as I opened the fridge to grab the ingredients.
Tomatoes. Chop, chop, chop. Okras. Thinly. Chop, chop, chop. And then a bunch more things. Chop, chop, chop.
I remembered the first time Mom taught me how to make sour soup. With four clashing spices (salt, fish sauce, tamarind water, sugar), the process of perfecting the soup was similar to that of picking out a good perfume; my tongue absorbed so many flavors that everything started to taste like nothing. After a few tries, I finally achieved that near-perfect aroma.
Stir-fried kangkong was Dad’s favorite. With toasted garlic and oyster sauce, the ultimate earthly dish is ready to be served. Though easy, one time, Dad somehow managed to almost burn the leaves.
“They call this water spinach but I don’t see any water,” he defended helplessly.
Thank goodness he was my food buddy and not my kitchen acquaintance.
Onto the zucchini with tofu stew. We initially made the stew with mushroom, but for my picky sister, I substituted medium-firm tofu. Picky kid, she will know how to eat everything if she learns to cook. Wait– I sounded like a mom just now.
6:55 p.m. Almost home.
7:00 p.m. There they are. Mom kept her promise.
Right away, Dad complained about how his kangkong didn’t look as juicy as usual. Come on, Dad. Don’t judge the dish by its greasiness. My sister saw the tofu and asked if it was for her. Yes, they are for you, little kid. Mom did not say anything about my soup, but she nodded with approval after seeing the inviting dishes that I had put so much effort into preparing.
We started eating and told each other about our days. Having nothing special to share, I listened attentively to Dad and my sister’s bickering about whether the egg came first, or the chicken came first. They should consider forming a comedy duo.
Mom mentioned my childhood. She recalled that one time I rolled down the stairs and hit my head. To her relief, the bump didn’t affect my intellectual ability.
“Maybe you got smarter because of that accident?”
If that’s the case, I would roll down the stairs now, Mom.
“How come I slip and fall all the time but I’m not getting any smarter?” my sister asked, puzzled.
“That’s because you never study.”
“Eh… Dad… Anyway, I have something for you, Mani,” my sister said as she took out a large bowl of rice ball sweet soup. “Happy birthday!”
Cute kid. She knew I was not a big fan of cake.
“My birthday is your excuse for chugging down the sweet soup, isn’t it?” I giggled. “Eat it for me, will you?”
“I will make sure not to let any drop of the soup go to waste.”
“Too bad you don’t have your favorite dessert this year again.”
“It’s okay, Dad. Maybe next year I will have it.”
“Remember to open the gifts later.”
“The box is too big to ignore, Mom,” I reassured her. “Thank you, Mom, Dad, and La, for celebrating this day with me.”
“Eat well and sleep well, okay? We love you.”
“Me too, Mom. I love you all so much.”
8:00 p.m. Time’s up.
The deafening silence woke me up from the virtual reality.
Again, I was stuck there. Again, alone.
I looked at the three empty dishes on the table and smiled. At least they were here.