When food memories fill the void
When eating helped leave an estranged father in the past
I remember the first time I saw my father. It was summer. I was 5 years old.
My mother had just given me a bath in a tin tub outside our one-bedroom casita and I was sitting on the hood of her ’76 Buick Regal. Even though I had never seen him in person before, I had seen photos of him, so I recognized him from the moment I laid eyes on him
He asked my mother if he could take me out for an hour. She agreed. He bought me an ice cream from a truck and then we went over to Mrs. Jones’ house, around the corner from my mom’s. I sat at her kitchen table and my dad disappeared into the back room with his childhood friend until we left.
When he dropped me off, he said, “I’ll call you tomorrow.” But he never did.
It was then that I understood that people often use food to “lessen the blow.” People often hide themselves, just as much as they reveal themselves, in food. People use food for distraction. If you were in my family, anger would be answered with a phrase like “shut up and eat this.” If there was something to celebrate, maybe it was “Congratulations! Let’s eat out!” For sadness: “I’m sorry for your loss. I brought this.” Every emotion is tied to eating.
The second time I saw my father I was 10. It was summer. He and my mother met up at a safe public space and exchanged me like a delivery boy exchanges money for goods. My father was supposed to have me for an hour, but 30 minutes into it he dropped me off at my grandma’s house.
When he dropped me off, he said, “I’ll call you tomorrow.” But he never did.
My primo-hermano (cousin) was a young terror. He was 8 years old and had never met his mother because she was in prison. He lived with my grandmother and never did anything she told him to do. I always did everything she told me to do.
But not on the day my father dropped me off. I ate my feelings. My primo-hermano convinced me to conquer the hierarchy of apartment-project heathens on top of the neighbor’s fence so that I could grab the juiciest of sun-warmed mulberries. My Falstaffian physique blocked most kids from crawling over me while one of my chubby hands grasped the fence and the other picked the supreme berries and handed them down to my cousin. My cousin stood there with the bottom of his shirt cupped in to hold the berries; ringworm in his hair, skinny legs ashy beyond recognition.
I lost myself in the eating of those mulberries until it became the day that I ate taboo mulberries, and not the day I was denied love from my estranged father. And when my grandma shouted for the both of us, we showed up on her doorstep, assuring her we had not been in the mulberry tree — the byzantine purple splotches and stains on our clothing, fingertips and faces betraying us.
The third time I saw my father I was 15. It was summer. I was an out-of-control teenager living with my friend whose family was from Laos. My single mother, who worked full time, couldn’t handle me. I asked if I could live in the fantasy world where my father existed. She called him and he came to pick me up.
He brought me to his house, where I realized he had moved on and created another family. He was having a birthday party for his 1-year-old daughter and his 11-year-old daughter. He sent me to the park alone with the kids. This was not what I was expecting. The whole time I kept thinking how he didn't want the responsibility of raising a child in me, but only four years later he decided he did?
When he dropped me off, he said, “I’ll call you tomorrow.” But he never did.
I went inside my friend’s house and ate a big bowl of pho — the biggest bowl of pho. I placed my face directly over the bowl and inhaled the hot, rich broth. Everything went into the bowl: basil, bean sprouts, thinly sliced onion, bright green lime until it was punchy, Sriracha until it was spicy. I feverishly shoved meatballs and rare flank steak into my mouth and slurped the noodles until it became the day I ate the best bowl of pho. And not the day I was denied love from my estranged father.
The fourth time I saw my father I was 20. It was summer. I ran into him and a woman in the grocery store. He had just gotten out of court-ordered rehab. He gave me his card, some 12-step rigamarole and told me to call him. I said, “I’ll call you tomorrow.” And I never did. And I didn’t need to eat afterwards. Because it was the day that I denied love to my estranged father.
People use food for distraction. If you were in my family, anger would be answered with a phrase like “shut up and eat this.” If there was something to celebrate, maybe it was “Congratulations! Let’s eat out!”