I sometimes wonder what goes on in my grandma’s mind when it comes to food. Based on my time with her, these are some of my theories as to what she’s thinking.
I do not know what to do if I get hungry.
If she doesn’t mention food, I will forget to eat. In fact, she has to remind me every hour (every half hour as meal time draws near) just in case. Even though I’ve been alive for 24 years and counting, I will never outgrow this sad inability to detect hunger within myself. Heaven forbid I venture out into the outside world for longer than five hours! By the time I arrive home, I must be famish. There’s no way I would have consider taking care of my hunger problem without her ever present reminders.
Any food that is not Asian is bad.
It doesn’t matter if it looks healthy or tasty. If it’s not Asian, it is disgusting. The offended, dirty face she makes, along with the Marge-like grunt that soon follows, signals this opinion every time I come home with take out or whenever I make something “American” like a sandwich.
Temperature is beyond my understanding.
You see, if I don’t immediately eat food that was literally just made on a hot stove, it will get cold. No, like REALLY cold. It’s one of the worse things that can happen and because of that fact she needs to remind me to eat every minute past the time I was suppose to have started eating. If I wait too long, my food will freeze over. The fact that we own a microwave is irrelevant.
I do not possess the basic skills to cook for myself.
If I ever try to make anything on my own, such as something as difficult as eggs (), she has to micromanage what I’m doing so I can get through it. It doesn’t matter that I’ve cooked for myself numerous times before. She WILL repeat every step in the cooking process, and there’s not a single thing I could say to stop it. For her, there’s always that chance I will forget something and when I do, she will be there to cue me to turn off the stove when I’m done.
Chinese soup cures absolutely everything.
Coughing? Drink her soup. Having trouble sleeping? Drink her soup. Have the flu? Drink her soup. Got allergies? Drink her soup. Your arm is sore? Drink her soup. Infected with a flesh eating virus? Drink two bowls of her soup.
There are so much more I could discuss (i.e. rice being a requirement at every meal, steak must be cooked extremely well done and with corn on the side each time, heating up all the leftovers even if only a small portion will be eaten), but for the sake of time I’ll digress. I understand she does all this out of love, but there are days when I feel I’m just one reminder away from going bonkers.
Now will you excuse me, my grandma is calling.
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