Food as connection and memories

Illustration credit Angie Pine

Food as connection and memories

Whenever I get the question “What’s your favourite food?”, I find myself struggling to give a straight answer. It’s not because I have so many favourites that I am unable to decide which one thing I would love to eat 9 out of 10 times, but because food isn’t something I just have a desire to consume and savour. While my daily meals are not always particularly exciting nor complex (usually some mix of protein, veggies, and rice), food is actually quite very central to my identity because some dishes I cook, eat, and enjoy is tied to decades of memories (some sweet, some not so sweet) and how I connected, and continue to connect, with others.

Food as Comfort

I grew up in a Cantonese household, and I feel especially blessed that I had access to so many incredibly tasty dishes, from the subtly sweet and savoury bright red char siu (BBQ pork), the juicy yet crunchy siu yuk (crispy pork belly), to tender, steamed white fish like red snapper topped with scallions, ginger, and soy sauce. These foods were some of the few consistent comforts I could take respite in during my extremely tumultuous childhood. When I eat these foods as an adult, each bite simultaneously tastes heavenly and nostalgic, with just a tinge of sadness.

Food as A Way of Connecting and Staying Connected

In 2013, I was invited to my first ever potluck organised by classmates from my university. Not really knowing what to make, I asked my classmate and friend E if there was some food he missed. “Tortilla soup”, he responded firmly, “With avocado and sour cream”. I found a recipe from Ree Drummond online, adjusted a few ingredients, and the soup was gone as quickly as I had made it. I had never cooked for anyone aside from myself prior to being in uni, and the potluck was a memorable moment of both validation and vulnerability (holy crap, people like what I made!). Nowadays I host dinners 1-2 times a week to test new recipes, hone my skills, and share bits of my identity and history.

Every now and then, my childhood group of friends from Sint Maarten and I meet up (usually in the Randstad because there are more options there) in search of Caribbean food (be it from Curaçao, Sint Maarten, or Jamaica). Over steaming plates of ooey-gooey macaroni pie, glistening BBQ wings and ribs, saucy goat stew, and my absolute must-have side of fried plantain, we fondly reminisce about our high school days and spill the hot goss on our daily lives.

My Favourite Fond Food Memories

Some dishes hold a very distinct memory for me:

Whenever I make a pan-fried rosemary lemon chicken breast, I think back to my friend R and his astonishment at how juicy and tasty chicken breast could be. “My mom would cook it to death, and it would always be so tough and dry!” he had told me as he happily chowed down. R was not a fan of meat in general, but he made an exception for my cooking.

Whenever I have a steaming bowl of phở (Vietnamese noodle soup), I am transported back to fall 2016, sitting across Jiye because she invited me to dinner to talk about “Our existential crises!”. As we quietly slurped our rice noodles and lime-lined and fresh chili-spiced soup, we talked about growing up as third-culture kids, existential life questions, and how good, authentic food was not that easy to find in Maastricht. It was my first time tasting phở at Saigon Cuisine (You should totally go there!), and ever since then, I have brought almost everyone I know to the mom-and-pop run restaurant, sometimes for existential talks, and sometimes for just good food, vibes, and fond memories of the start of an everlasting friendship.

Whenever I make bak chit gai (poached chicken), I remember how my mother responded one time when I timidly asked her to make it for me: “That’s so much work”, she had responded grumpily. Poaching a whole chicken (as was done traditionally), cutting through the rough fibres of ginger to make the sauce, and heating oil until it smoked was not convenient in our small studio and blunt knives, which was all we had living on Sint Maarten. Now, I make it for myself (but with chicken legs and sharper knives) whenever I am feeling homesick or in need of comfort. But I too grit my teeth and shake out my hand from the strain of finely mincing a huge knob of ginger, muttering to myself “This is a real labour of love”.

Whenever I make a Guyanese curry chicken (yes, that is the correct order of words—fight me!), I have fond memories of my step-mother’s Guyanese housekeeper, Dolly. She would share half of her home-made lunch with me, knowing how starved I was after school. I remember fondly how she would lovingly encourage and remind me to do well in school as a way to move up in the world, and to not take the harsh words of my step-mother to heart. I would listen in between delicious, soul-warming bites of stewed bora (yardlong beans) and shrimp, curry eggplant and fish, chicken kidneys, and of course, her curry chicken.

To eat the food I make or to have a meal with me is to know me, and I gotta say it’s a pretty tasty way to connect. But until you get the chance to meet me, here’s a recipe (there will be no exact measurements, it’s just how I roll) that I find myself going to when I’m in the mood to feel nourished, cozy, and satiated. I don’t think it’s widely available in your local Chinese restaurants, so I hope you’ll give it a try!

Cantonese Bak chit gai 

(trans. white-cut chicken) with ginger scallion oil)

For the chicken:

• one chicken leg (1 per person),

• a big thumb-sized/knob of unpeeled ginger,

• chopped in slices 2—3 scallion stalks (or more!),

• chopped in 3—4cm pieces,

• salt to taste.

For the ginger scallion oil:

• another big thumb size-d knob of ginger,

• peeled and finely minced 2—3 stalks of scallion,

• neutral oil,

• salt to taste.

Directions

1. Put the chicken leg, sliced ginger, scallions, and salt in a pot and fill with water until the chicken leg are just submerged (like, 1 cm of water above).

2. Heat up the pot on medium-high heat for 30 minutes, and turn off the heat and leave to continue cooking for 15—20 minutes while you get started on the ginger scallion oil.

3. Add the minced ginger and scallions in a pan and add enough oil to submerge the aromatics, and heat on medium heat for 10—15 minutes until aromatic gently sizzle.

4. Add salt to the oil and stir.

5. Serve the chicken with rice, and ladle the ginger scallion oil generously over the chicken and rice (the sauce is a real appetite whetter!).

Have you any fond, or not so fond, memories of food? Or have you tried my recipe? Share your thoughts or feedback in the comments!