My mum made a salad, I wanted a burger
MY MUM gets me. That’s profound, not because of the relationship I reference, but because as a daughter, I’m finally saying so. I imagine it must be affirming, maybe maddening, for a parent to have their adult child state with authority a truth that has existed for decades. Yet, here we are. My mum “getting” who I am is only one part of the story, however. The second part is why she gets me, another truth I’ve recently realised: Surprise! - I’m a lot like her.
A couple of weeks ago, I introduced my mother to a dear friend over lunch in Midtown Manhattan. Along with my husband, we dived into a Sichuan spread. Between starter servings of mung bean jelly noodles and a giant bowl of braised fish fillets floating in fiery red chile sauce, my friend turned to my mum and clasped his hands together. “Angela,” he began in mock seriousness, “I have questions.”
“Hit me,” she said, reaching for a piece of scallion pancake.
“Tell me about baby Osayi. When did you know that all this” - he gestured across the table toward me in a sweeping, circular motion - “was going to be . . . a situation?”
Minutes into their relationship, they were sharing knowing looks. I laughed into my bowl. I had expected them to bond over grape varietals. My mom, Angela Rushen Ross, a former reporter, news anchor and media manager, rested her chopsticks. I braced myself. “When did I know she was going to be independent, go her own way?” she asked. “Early.”
She described how I’d “up and left” school during my first week of kindergarten near Berkeley. I’d successfully completed several days, each one culminating in an adult- chaperoned walk - me and many classmates - to the day- care center about a half-mile away. But on this day, after lunch, I took my backpack and left - the campus. A neighbour happened to be driving past my route, so she pulled over, concerned that I was out of school and, more important, alone. She asked me where I was going.
At the restaurant, my mother thrust her chin outward, mimicking an indignant child: “’I’m going to day care!’” My mother continued, “Osayi wouldn’t get in the neighbour’s car because we’d told her to never take a ride unless we’d instructed her to do so. She marched to day care with the neighbor driving three miles per hour, to keep an eye on her.” I was barely five years old. Like many kids, I determined how I felt about things by differentiating my opinions from those of my parents.
Mum shows me the blue dress, I choose the red. I say college in New York, she says stay in California. (She won.) Mum makes a vibrant salad with romaine, grilled prawns, hearts of palm and grape tomatoes in a lemon vinaigrette; I’ll have a burger, thanks.
But there were similarities. I tried out for cheerleading because I was enamored with the gorgeous photos of my mom in her gold-and-blue uniform of Los Angeles’s Locke High School. Bored with age- appropriate books I’d read twice, I regularly dipped into her collection (and got in trouble for reading Tina Turner’s memoir at age 9).
She helped me thrive. She would record me reading aloud, using her reporter equipment so I could hear that my rushed words raked me into a stutter. She oversaw my essay revisions before I ever dreamed of becoming a writer; so what if the teacher said it was fine? Not long ago, I texted her from my home in Florida about this “amazing” salad I’d been evolving. Mild greens and fresh herbs, panseared spicy shrimp with cherry tomatoes, sliced Braeburn apples and daikon, all tossed in a tahinilemon dressing. “Well, there you go,” she wrote back. Ah. Right.
I am fortunate that my well of resources is based in my mother’s love and guidance. It hasn’t always been easy. Sometimes I felt judged; I know she sometimes felt dismissed. But I always knew love lived in the gaps. Lately, I’m figuring out that being the best version of myself often means pulling from the best of where I come from, even if that means I change the recipe a bit.
I love to build my salad. To watch the bowl fill as the kitchen becomes fragrant with fresh basil, bright daikon, juicy tomatoes. But my favourite part is making the dressing. I start with a dollop of tahini and mix in honey, apple cider vinegar and a squeeze of lemon, then slowly add coconut milk until the texture is light and smooth. It has a calming effect that lets the disparate salad ingredients come together, but without losing their unique qualities.
My mum gets me. I get her, too. — WP-Bloomberg