Of my two parents, my mother has always been the one who expects the most of us. Unlike my father, who used to take my sister and me out for Dairy Queen whenever we got a good report card, my mother would just nod and give a faint smile at our assumed excellence being confirmed. Doubt just isn’t in her vocabulary. There isn’t a problem that she can’t solve.
My father always mentions my mother’s confidence when he’s telling people how they met—a common occurrence, because everyone wants to know how an Italian American patent attorney with male-pattern balding and a Grade A dad bod ended up with a gynecologist who’s a dead ringer for Danai Gurira.
He also says, jokingly, that it was the noodle connection.
That’s how my father describes it. He was a law student. My mother was in med school. They met at a party thrown by one of my mother’s church friends. Within a few minutes of their first conversation, they found out they lived on the same street, which was how they ended up in my mother’s apartment with her roommates as chaperones, eating glorified ramen.
This is the point of my parents’ love story where my nne nne raises her hands to her temples and moans “chineke meh.” It’s like my grandmother thinks she can use mind control to wish away my mother’s rude breach of etiquette, that she would dare to fete a potential suitor with instant noodles, even if they were spruced up with yam, carrot, and egg. “How does she expect to catch a husband by cooking indomie? Only by the grace of God.”
To which my father simply gives a rumpled shrug and a nostalgic smile. He grew up eating some variation of spaghetti with red sauce four days of the week with fish on Fridays. The indomie was a hit: “A pasta by any other name tastes as sweet.”
The only thing sweeter is the kiss that my father lays on my mother’s forehead whenever he tells the story. Their tenderness always sets off a lightning-quick pang in my chest, as if my body is processing the briefest panic that my father could’ve judged my mother by the dinner she served him. There are so many things that need to fall in place for two people to get together, and even more things that need to happen for them to stay together.
I know that you can’t go through life like that, imagining your life stretching ahead of you as a series of missed connections. I know that with so many billions of people in the world, chances are there’s someone out there who wouldn’t mind hanging out with me and maybe making out a bit. And I know that even if I don’t find “the one”—if there’s even such a thing—it’s still possible to live a fulfilling and happy life.
That’s always been my problem. Knowing something is going to be fine doesn’t ever stop my body from acting like things might turn out badly anyway. So it’s not my fault. I can’t help it: Each time I witness the force that still draws my parents to each other, I worry that the random sequence of events that leads to love will never happen to me.
This Is My Brain on Food Joy
JOCELYN
I send Priya my first draft of our screenplay the second I’m done with it. It’s the deal we’ve made: “You have so little faith in yourself that you’ll throw out anything that’s not one hundred percent perfect. Let me tell you the ninety percent that works so you can fix the ten percent that doesn’t.”
Within minutes she pings me back.
Got it. BTW, made some vids that I think you’ll like. I have a little more editing to do and then we can post them.
The link she sends to me is literally a sizzle reel, with close-up shots of onions bubbling in oil and of Jin-Jin doing a stir fry, the kind that leaves a film of grease over you when you’re done. She’s got a beautiful single shot of my amah making a dumpling, her quick fingers making it look like magic. There’s a sped-up action video of me panfrying the pot stickers where I look completely badass.
The best part, though, is a montage that she made of people’s reactions when they had the pot stickers. Priya’s videos are proof positive that eating my amah’s dumplings is a cross between a religious experience and a sex act.
There’s the burly middle-aged man who looks skeptical when his wife hands him a dumpling on a fork (heathens). His eyes are narrowed when he moves in for his bite, but the second his teeth sink in his eyes open in surprise before they close shut while he chews, as if he doesn’t want his other senses to interfere with his ability to savor the pot sticker.
There’s the twenty-something woman wearing NYU shorts who makes a beeline to our booth with her friends. “Pot stickers, yessssss! I get them all the time in the Village.”
“Really?” you can hear one of her friends saying in the background. “I don’t think you should trust a Utica dumpling any more than you trust a Utica bagel.”
NYU girl tears into the jiaozi despite the fact that they’re fresh from the pan and jumps up and down beckoning for a water bottle when it’s too hot. “Holy shit, these are awesome. Totally as good as Dumpling Kingdom.”
My favorite clip, though, is one of a toddler clutching a blue Observer-Dispatch balloon while her mom is hand-feeding her bits of chopped-up dumpling. The girl is putting them down like a champ—every few seconds she squeezes her fingertips together and moves her hands in and out until they bounce off each other in the baby sign for “more.” She looks like a little bird flapping its wings.
She looks like pure joy.
I think back to the dozens of hours we spent rolling out dough, coming home with flour caked in my cuticles, dusted over every article of clothing including my shoes; I think of the days of anxiety leading up to the Expo and the exhausting, bone-wearying crush of cooking and serving, the lines of people that seemed to blur into a sea of waiting, disapproving, disappointed faces. How had I missed all the food joy that Priya saw?
On my laptop, Priya’s interviewing the toddler.
“Is this your first dumpling? Did you like it?”
The little girl gives a big nod and her blond curls flutter as she gives a big two-thumbs-up.
And that’s how Priya ends the video—with a freeze-frame of this little girl who can barely talk, who’s fallen in love with jiaozi.
And goddammit, those are not tears in my eyes.
When Will comes in on Monday, he’s carrying two green Tupperwares and looks faintly tentative, almost nauseated.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Yeah. I brought you some Nigerian food my mom made. Have you ever tried jollof rice?”
“There’s no such thing as a bad carb in my book,” I say, peeking under the lid of one of the containers. It’s a riot of different colors and smells like curry.
“That’s egusi stew. It’s made out of crushed melon seeds and beef, fish, and all sorts of veggies.” Will’s acting super nervous. I can relate. “My mom likes it because it reminds her of home. I like it because it’s more interesting than pasta, which is what my father usually cooks.”
I steal a place setting from one of the booths and take a bite. Will’s right: It’s a wonderfully satisfying and complex mix of curried spices and textures. And the experience of eating it doesn’t end in my mouth—it sends a thrill of satisfaction through my entire head before traveling down to settle into a warm glow in my stomach.
“This is amazing,” I tell Will, as sincerely as I’ve told anyone anything in years. “My taste buds are just exploding. Do you think this is the first time anyone’s ever eaten Nigerian food with chopsticks?” I ask.
“Probably not. There’s actually a Chinatown in Lagos. My cousins talk about it all the time. It’s where they go to get bootleg American movies before they come out on DVD.”
I eyeball the Tupperwares Will brought—they probably have three or four servings. I know Amah would love it. “Do you mind if I share this with my family?”
“I’d be honored,” he says, his eyes crinkling.
I have to turn away to hide my blush at his smile.
This Is My Brain on Success
WILL
Jocelyn’s grandmother loves the egusi stew.
“Hen tebie,” she says, nodd
ing approvingly.
“She says it’s very special,” Jocelyn translates, and I finally relax. Grandma Wu polishes off the whole bowl, asking me if there is onion in it, and what kind, and tell me again what fish we used? I felt my cred rising with each answer I give.
“Are there any Nigerian restaurants around here?” Jocelyn asks after we put away the leftovers and go back to prep for lunch.
“Not really. There are a couple of African restaurants in Syracuse, but for specifically Nigerian food you need to go down to the city.” Once a year my family takes a New York trip to see a Broadway show, always making sure the next day to make a pilgrimage out to Jamaica or Harlem to eat at a restaurant that reminds my mom of home.
“Funny, when you can go to any little town in the middle of nowhere Nebraska and find a Chinese take-out place. Did you know there are more Chinese restaurants in the US than there are McDonald’ses?”
“No. That’s ridiculous.” That’s the kind of fact that I’ll need to research for my feature—one that will make the story universal and not just specific.
“Never underestimate the ability of my people to sacrifice everything to bring the gospel of moo shu pork to the unbelievers of middle America. And to make a buck. I read a book about it, how this one Chinese restaurant in Manhattan was the first one to deliver, around the time when more women had started to join the workforce. It was a total revolution. Now Chinese food is literally more American than cherry pie. I can think of at least three movies off the top of my head where someone is eating Chinese food out of the take-out box. It all goes back to Woody Allen and that scene from Manhattan with him and Mariel Hemingway.” When I look confused by her reference, she explains, “It’s kind of old, his first movie after Annie Hall. Priya’s life goal is to watch every movie on the AFI 100 lists, and it’s on the comedy one.”
I shake my head. “My family mostly watches Marvel and Pixar, or more hyped-up blockbuster movies. I have watched a lot of films about journalism, though: The Post, All the President’s Men, and Spotlight.”
“Have you seen Broadcast News? It’s a 1980s film with Holly Hunter and William Hurt. Also on the AFI 100 Laughs list.” Jocelyn pauses for a second and fiddles with the napkin she’s wrapping around a pair of chopsticks and a fork. “We could watch it. Here in the restaurant on a slow day,” she adds quickly, without looking at me.
“That’d be fun,” I say. Every once in a while my parents have the family watch what my father fondly calls “the classics of my youth”—The Princess Bride, The Breakfast Club, and E.T. “I get a kick out of eighties movies. I think it has something to do with the fact that movies weren’t digital yet, so all the special effects are so… earnest.”
That makes Jocelyn quirk a smile in my direction. Eye contact at last. “Exactly! They’re trying so hard. How can you not appreciate the craft that movies used to take?” She grimaces. “Nowadays, an elementary school kid with an iPhone can shoot a decent short film.”
“It’s like that with journalism,” I say. “Any blogger can build a platform and get as many hits as a legit newspaper with paid reporters. It’s scary, even though some people would say it allows for more viewpoints.” I stop myself before I start ranting about how the biggest papers have become worshippers of the search engine optimization gods, and how Google has lowered the bar for research to the point where the wrong journalist can find “data” to support anything.
“Yeah, it’s the same with movies. It’s just too easy,” Jocelyn says. Suddenly, she sits back into the booth, her body language relaxed but controlled. The uncertainty she had when she asked if I wanted to watch Broadcast News is gone, replaced with a wide-eyed, raw expression. She’s not shy about looking at me right now. I feel a bit like I’m a firefly that she’s captured in a mason jar, and that she’s waiting for me to light up.
In sixteen years, I’ve never been the focus of a girl’s attention like that, and my body responds to Jocelyn’s stare as if this is the most important, life-changing cold call I’m going to make in my life.
“Does it ever scare you…” She pauses, and I can feel my pulse fluttering in my neck as she gathers her thoughts. “Do you ever find it terrifying to think that with so many billions of people who have walked this earth, there is no way that your thoughts are unique? I mean, everyone pretty much agrees that at this point Hollywood is just a recycling bin of ideas. Do you ever wonder, what’s the point?”
Jocelyn’s brown eyes are impossibly dark and liquid. I can feel myself begin to flush. Somewhere above us, the central air turns on, but I can hardly hear it over the roaring in my ears as I struggle to formulate a coherent response, to say something that’s meaningful, because it’s so clear how much my answer matters to her.
What I want to tell Jocelyn is: I wonder all the time. About everything, which is why I’m so awkward at parties. I’m a writer, not an improv guy. If you need someone to come up with a cutting remark approximately seven minutes after one would’ve been useful, though, I’m all over it. The seconds tick by as I start to say something, then bite it back. Then I bark out a laugh.
“Okay, how ironic is it that I’m struggling so hard to say something original about how impossible it is to have unique ideas?”
It takes Jocelyn a moment to parse out my meaning, but when she does she giggles.
I grin back. “If you haven’t figured it out yet, the answer is yes. I wonder, ‘What’s the point?’ all the time, and not just with writing.” I balance a pair of chopsticks on my fingers, testing their weight before deciding to make my next statement. “I mean, a lot of the times it just seems like everything I want to do, my sister or my mom or my dad have done better already.”
Jocelyn lets out a huff of sympathy, and we sit in silence. Then she laughs and shakes her head. “I don’t usually do this, but you look like you need a hug. Can I give you a hug?”
My response is to step out of the booth and open my arms.
In my family, my dad’s always been the hugger. Grace and my mom are queens of the arm’s-length embrace. My dad, on the other hand, learned from the gold standard: my grandma Domenici, whose hugs are like falling into a down pillow of love and safety.
Jocelyn’s hug is fierce. The squeeze of her wiry arms knocks the air I have remaining right out of me. She’s such an outsize personality that as our bodies meet, I’m startled by how the top of her head barely comes to my chin. I can feel every angle and curve of her body, and the heat of her breath against my polo shirt. She smells faintly of mint, and it shouldn’t be a surprise that my jeans start feeling a little tight as my mind registers how curvy her figure is.
I don’t want the hug to end, but I shift a bit and rest my cheek on the top of her head so I can move my waist away from her a little—just enough to prevent any embarrassing escalation. Jocelyn seems to take the movement as me pulling away, though, and she lets go.
As she steps back, I’m acutely aware of a sense of loss. Suddenly the space between us feels like a solid object, heavy and impenetrable. I want to reach out to bring her in close again, but I hear my mother’s voice in my head, scolding me on the impropriety. I hear my friends’ voices, jeering at me for my permanent membership in the Got-No-Game Club. And almost ominously, I hear Mr. Wu’s first admonition to me: “No hanky-panky.”
This Is My Brain on Touch
JOCELYN
It won’t surprise you to find out that my family is not really the hugging type.
My mom likes to show affection with small pecks on the forehead, sending us off to school with a hand on the shoulder and a “Work hard today! Respect your teachers!” My dad basically just grunts and scowls at us. Amah prefers to shower love by pushing food.
If I had never met Priya Venkatram, there is no way I would have asked Will for a hug. But after several years of friendship with Priya, who dispenses hugs like Tic Tacs, I know how amazing it feels to have someone put their arms around you when you’ve just shown them a piece of yourself. I hug Will to thank hi
m for being vulnerable, the way you can’t help but scratch the belly of a dog who rolls over for you.
Hugging Will is nothing like hugging Priya, and I savor it the way I would a new kind of sweet, closing my eyes and pressing my face to his chest with a sigh. It’s a slice of paradise—he’s so warm and tall and muscly(!). I’m really leaning into it, and Will isn’t shying away, circling me with those forearms that feel just as good touching me as they looked.
But then he pulls away from me just a little. Just enough that there’s a sliver of air in between our bodies, enough that I open my eyes and realize that I’m showing PDA in the dining room of my family’s restaurant, with a boy who doesn’t even realize that I like him, and oh my God, what was I thinking?
My dad could walk out of the kitchen any minute.
I let go of him as if I’ve been stung by a spray of hot oil, and my arms flap awkwardly at my side. “Um, I hope that wasn’t too uncomfortable.”
Will doesn’t look unhappy, though. “Not at all.” He lifts his hand up in an abortive gesture, as if he’s not sure what to do with his appendages, either, and ends up sticking it in his pocket. He shrugs and gives a little grin. “I fully consented to the hug. I won’t file any complaints with HR.”
It’s a relief to turn back to work and dial things down a little. For the next hour, I try to keep my eyes on my computer screen, even as a tiny voice in my head keeps whispering, “Look at him, look at how cute he is! He’s right there!”
Will and I tag team our social media sites—I respond to our Twitter mentions, and he curates our Instagram account for the college students and our Facebook page for people over forty. I can barely concentrate, and my peripheral vision seems to register every single time Will moves his hands up to scratch behind his ear, heck, every time he freaking swallows.
This Is My Brain in Love Page 9