The Language of Love

You know those little handmade valentines and other little “I love you” notes that you got when your kid was little? Well, I never got those. Occasionally, when the Child was a teenager, I got a card or wildflowers picked from someone’s yard. But over the last few years, since he’s been in college, I’ve been getting a lot of love notes. At least, that’s what these questions sound like to me.

“Hey, I’m in the market. What kind of mushrooms do I need if I am making a vegetable stock? Is it those dried ones?”

“I went back to that place you took me to, the Indonesian place. It was soooo good.”

“What are those noodles I like called? You know the fat ones. Yeah, yeah, the Shanghai noodles. Gotta get me some of those.”

“I went to the dimsum place today. It was totally packed. Must have been ‘cause it’s Chinese New Year. All these Chinese people ordering. Nah, I was fine. I know my my way around. I can totally handle it.”

The Child grew up with what I would consider a limited palate. His father baked and he had a lot of home cooked meals, but the range of foods was not broad. I felt it my parental duty to show him the world. To me, the way I grew up, one enters the world and becomes comfortable with its diversity through food. I introduced him to Asian cuisines—Indian, Chinese, Thai-- by bringing him curries and stir-frys to school; I took him to Asian markets and all sorts of restaurants, many where he was often the only non-Asian. I taught him to cook, and gave him cookbooks, pans, and spice collections. Over the last several years, he has developed a love of cooking, a passion for growing his own organic food, and strong commitment for sustainable eating. He now sees a grocery store the way an artist sees a palette: a place of creativity and possibility, not simply a place to pick up some milk. Just the way I see it.

While we talk about all sorts of things from the ridiculous to the profound, the Child and I talk a lot about food and eating. What I hear in these conversations is truly the language of love. Part of it is that, no matter the culture, the cooking and sharing of food is an act of care and love. In the case of parent and child, it is also something else. When they are young, our children often mimic what we do and then later rebel against it as a way to assert their own identity. But when they adopt something we have shown them or something that we too love, it not only seems to validate what we've taught but also serves as evidence of our deep parent-child connection.

I, perhaps more than others, look for that testament, that verification of connection. Though I call him the Child, I am not his biological mother nor did I raise him. I have no children. He has a mother, step-father, and father—all of whom he loves dearly and to whom he has unwavering loyalty. Yet, somehow, over the years, he and I adopted one another. I give him both unsolicited and solicited advice, nag him, worry about him, and beam with maternal pride over his accomplishments. He chides me for my illogicalities, pokes through the veneer of my self-assumed wisdom, and yet still makes me feel I have something to contribute to his life. While I cannot take credit for anything he is or has become (really, I don’t know that any person can, parent or not), I like to think that I helped to encourage this love of food in him. But what really makes me smile when he talks about food is knowing that he’s also talking about our bond.