Wednesday, May 26, 2010

cơm

Viet: cơm
Meaning: cooked rice
Pronunciation: a mix between "gum" and "scum" minus s

The Asian staple.  I have eaten more rice in the last four and a half years then I think I ate in the whole eighteen years before I met my fiance.  He eats it with Chinese sausage, with canned tuna, with barbeque, with any meat he can dig out of our fridge.  And always drowned in Golden Mountain Seasoning Sauce, which I only recently realized is soy sauce (the Vietnamese literally translates to "salt to increase taste"). 

In the beginning, Thai always made the rice.  He'd scoop the dry grains out of the giant cloth bag in the pantry, and they'd clatter into the silver bowl of the rice cooker.  He'd casually hold the bowl under the faucet for a few seconds, before fitting in back in its nest.  And 20 minutes later, voila! Delicious white rice!  I was in awe of this magic machine that combined dry and wet with heat to create perfection.

Then, Thai graced me with the darkest and deepest Vietnamese secret to be passed down for generations... (do they even have rice cookers in Vietnam?)... The key was the amount of water.  Too little and the rice couldn't cook; too much and it turned into mush.  The perfect amount, he instructed me, was to the first knuckle of your pinky finger.  And thus I took my first step forward as a Viet chef.


------ Note: There are three versions of the letter O in the Viet alphabet.  Yes, three!!   Let's see if I get these right -- o is said like "aww," ơ is said like "uh," and ô is said like "oh." -- Now just throw in the accents and there are only seventeen possible combinations for the letter O!  Oh my...

Tuesday, May 25, 2010

I've decided to become Vietnamese.

What makes a person Vietnamese?

My fiance's mother was born in southern Vietnam.  She would still be there, most likely, if the war had not come.
But it did, and so she began a death-defying cycle: attempt escape, get caught, go to prison.  She has told me that she did not want her children to be raised in a Communist country, the place where she rode her bike to school past piles of dead bodies loaded in carts.  The place where she was told what she could do and where she could go.  
And thus, for the eighth time, she crawled into a tiny boat and prayed that this time they would not get caught.  I cannot even imagine the relief she must have felt when she placed her feet on land again.
Thailand.  Freedom.  Waiting. 
She waited for years for a chance to migrate to the USA. It finally came, and here in the States she has remained. She is a survivor. She is a pillar of strength. And no one would deny, she is Vietnamese.

So is it being born in Vietnam that makes one Vietnamese?  
My fiance was born in a Thai refugee camp, a location so sacred to his mother that she named him "Thai."  I think that was her small way of saying, "Thank you," to the country that had embraced her in her time of need.
Thai, however, remembers nothing of Asia, nothing of Dallas, nothing of California.  All he recollects is the ghettos of Houston, Texas.  
And yet, I still always say he was raised in "Vietnam."  His mother could only speak Vietnamese, and so he only spoke Vietnamese, until American children hammered English into his brain.  For the first eighteen years of his life, he ate phở bò and rice with nước mắm while surrounded by incense and jade statues of buddhas.  He watched his mom's Chinese soap operas dubbed in Vietnamese and listened to her Viet music and radio stations.  
He may worship Texas barbecue and obsess over American football, but he is not just any Texan or any American.  He is Vietnamese-American.

And then there's me.  Let's measure me by these Vietnamese standards, shall we?

Born in Vietnam? 
Far from it.  In the fourth grade, we had to do a project where we drew out our family tree with the birthplace of each relation written next to their name.  The letters "USA" were scribbled next to every single one of mine, reaching back for generations.

Olive skin and dark almond eyes? 
When Thai told me he'd never been sunburned, I couldn't conceive of that concept.  My complexion is pink and freckled; my eyes are wide and green.  My hair is dark, but it's a mass of curls that would frizz and fry in jungle heat.

Speaks Vietnamese?
At the level of a 2 year old.
Eats Vietnamese?
Restaurants and a rice cooker.
Celebrates Vietnamese culture?
I gamble on Lunar New Year, does that count?


I am not Vietnamese by any average measurement.  But I'm in love with a Vietnamese-American with a Vietnamese mother.  She doesn't care that I'm white or that I butcher her language when I speak it.  He doesn't care that I have green eyes and pale skin or that I can't cook phở.  
But I care; I want to embrace as much Vietnamese culture as my little spoiled American self can handle.  And I will document this delightfully terrifying journey here.

If you've made it this far in my explanation, cám ơn!