soopastryheart

On any given day, I will have no less than three bandages wrapped around my fingers. There are multitudes of desperately squeezed Neosporin tubes in the medicine cabinet and kitchen countertops. I have kitchen battle wounds on places that you typically shouldn’t see scars (forearm, elbows, shins, and bellybutton). I add too much garlic to everything, and my sauces are always a little too runny or far too dry. At 25, the only thing I can eyeball measure is the soy milk-to-cereal ratio, and that’s if I’m not distracted by something shiny.

I have often wondered if my mother feels disappointment in that her first born daughter (although she claims to have found me under a bridge) has failed so miserably in resembling or retaining any of her domestic prowesses. She has memorized and perfected long-standing recipes since she was half my age, while the only thing I am able to do with them is to shove them ferociously in my mouth as soon as they are prepared. My chopped vegetables are terribly sloppy and unevenly cut, but she slices and dices with the utmost precision with a speed that makes me wide-eyed with amazement.

And while I am inclined to eat burned macaroni and cheese straight from the pot, usually hovering over the sink, she has never found it taxing to set the table. Her presentation has always been impeccable, even after all these years, even when it’s just us neanderthals she’s serving; she always takes time to wipe off sauces that may have trickled onto the plate, and arranges the food in the most appetizing, Martha Stewart-perfect ways. And she does all of this automatically, without thought or concern that she’s doing it at all.

It would be easy to dismiss my Omma as just another traditional housewife, someone who cooks and cleans and makes sure my dad’s cholesterol is at acceptable levels. But in truth, it is she who keeps this family in checks and balances. It is she who fixes the broken dishwasher or lawn mower when my dad has given up in frustration. It is she who buys Honie and me pretty (but ultimately unnecessary) things that all girls love, but dads would find indulgent and fruitless. She is also the one who keeps my dad from making too many rash, impulsive decisions that will likely bite him in the ass later. Even with a family as close knit as ours, she’s the one each of us go to first to act as a buffer and confidant when we’re wary of how the others will respond to a particular piece of news. She’s the voice of reason, the greatest negotiator and problem solver of the most impossible of situations. She is the one who keeps us nourished in equal amounts of banchan and unconditional love.

Although I could never imagine taking the route she’s chosen, she has told me on many occasions that she is completely satisfied with the life she’s has lived, as a mother, wife, and a homemaker goddess. I tell her, with a hint judgment in my tone that I could never follow in her footsteps, that it would never be sufficient for me. But she takes no offense in my obvious arrogance. She’s not ashamed of the life she’s chosen – this is what she wanted, and for her, it’s proven to be enough. She’s had other aspirations and goals at several points in her life, but her role, her identity as homemaker always takes precedence, and she holds no regrets or qualms about that.

Even with my utter lack of sophistication, grace, and common sense in the kitchen, she has never pushed her lifestyle onto Honie or me. She understands that I’ve always been lights years different from her – that the tomboyish qualities I developed at an early age was never just a phase, but an integral part of my personality and character. I have always leaned slightly more to the obnoxious side; Ki has repeatedly told me I burp like a man and I have yet to conquer the concept of taking small bites when eating. I think it’s hilarious to cover my eyes while driving, screaming, “My contacts! My contacts!” especially when my mom is in the passenger seat. My priorities and interests never included anything with a ladle, and I think she’s always been secretly proud of that fact. She will occasionally criticize my total incompetence when it comes to laundry (ohhhhh, so silk really should be dry-cleaned), but the pride I hear in her voice when she’s defending my domestic shortcomings to others is always obvious and clear.

I’d never outright admit any of this, but I really do try to model myself after her. We are more alike than either of will ever care to admit, and when I catch myself doing things that are so Omma-esque, I am simultaneously shocked and pleasantly surprised. When I bake, I weed out the mutant cookies and/or muffins before placing the non-deformed ones neatly on a plate for others (although I think my dad would eat my banana muffins no matter how much they resembled a cleft foot in appearance). Whenever I find myself doing anything remotely ladylike, I know that I have intrinsically inherited the skill from my mother. I have learned, with much trial and error, to listen to her advice, no matter how pesky and obsolete they may seem at first (always carry extra Band-Aids… and a sewing kit). My mother and I grew up in two entirely different times, settings, and continents. We were raised with vastly contrasting set of expectations, but the similarities I see between us extend deeper and farther than any long-standing tradition. The core of who I am is founded on how my mom (and dad) chose to raise me, despite the image she’s probably always had in her head when it came to a first daughter. Ki, Honie, and I are who we are because we grew up in a house filled with encouragement, never enforcement.

I will always be someone who burns the chicken and her fingers. I am more than likely to go and buy new underwear to avoid doing laundry. I will always think fart jokes are funny. But because of my Omma, I will also never pick my teeth at the table. I will never be intentionally cruel towards anyone, even my enemies. I will always spoil Ki and Honie with things they could just as easily get for themselves. I will always feel love and supported, without limitations or expectations to meet. And for that, if I can become just a quarter of the woman my Omma is, I will consider myself to have done something right in this life.