Ma Ma’s Canh Cá Nấu Dưa Chua
The kitchen stinks of fish. Fish and pungent pickled vegetables. Grandma is making fish soup again. The familiar sour stench blankets our wood dinner table and the grey fabric of the sofa facing our flatscreen TV in the connecting room. My nose crinkles and I catch my throat constricting ever so slightly.
I hate it.
The TV has a faint glow and lightly hums a Cantonese variety show. The tapping of Grandma’s wooden spoon against the stone pot echoes in my chest. Her head is tilted down, watching the pot as bubbles come up to the broth’s surface. She must have made that soup enough times within her lifetime and mine combined to not even need to look. Yet her eyes are fixed to the pot, making sure the soup is to her liking. I cannot tell if it is admirable or sad.
I pace towards a cabinet to her left where we keep the plates. The family left me alone with Grandma again. It means I have to help prepare dinner with her. Grandma doesn’t seem to notice my movement and reaches for the cabinet at the same time. Grandma looks at me when our limbs collide, tilts her head into a weak smile and retreats her arm back to stirring soup. I grab the white porcelain plates off the shelf into a neat stack held between my forearms and the crevice of my elbows. Each plate clicks a syllable rippling into the kitchen air. I close the cabinet. Grandma is still staring at me, seemingly suspended in her smile. I hold her gaze.
She has a fragility that almost reminds me of a doll. The darkness of her irises appear glassy against the steam escaping in puffs, puckering her hand as she stirs her spoon. Bubbles of smooth mustard broth spill over the edge of the pot dissipating a sizzle into the kitchen air. I can see the soup clearer from here. The pale fish steaks rest in the center, surrounded by an assortment of thick wedged tomatoes and greenery like coriander and okra. The bright round red tomatoes stick out amongst the muted colours. They remind me of the Red Pockets we get for New Years. The tomatoes were my favourite part of the soup, or what made it tolerable. I scan the soup for a tomato chunk to mentally claim.
Grandma is still looking at me. Silent as broth beads skate across the stovetop.
I nod my head towards the stove. The soup is spilling. Though, that might not be a bad thing. Less for me. Grandma doesn’t waver. She’s frozen. A breathing statue staring through me.
“It’s spilling”
Her face doesn’t change. She lifts her arm and moves it in a sweeping motion.
“Nei5 seung2 sik6 me1?”
I wince and try to tell her again.
“Daai seui m hou,” my words sound like an exhale.
Grandma’s smile droops slightly as she tilts her head. Why hasn’t she noticed already? I give it a final try.
“The pot,” the word hangs in the air long enough until it is absorbed into the kitchen.
The plates press into my stomach as I adjust to wriggle an arm free, index finger pointed at the stove. The weight of the porcelain has suddenly become apparent. My arm quickly retreats back to supporting the plate stack.
Grandma finally turns her head.
She adjusts the stovetop knob and continues the stirring. The excess heat escapes the pot with Grandma’s slow laughter. I make my way to the dinner table. The wood cushions each plate into a damp tap. I place them one by one. Tap. Tap. Tap. They sound like Grandma’s spoon. Tap. Tap. I can hear the TV from here. Tap. The TV also sounds like Grandma. From here I can see Grandma’s indent on the sofa perched in front of it. My lifetime of living here has secured Grandma a permanent spot on the sofa. The perfect spot to watch variety TV seated or cooking. It was her spot, we all knew.
I look back to see her peacefully tending to the soup while the evaporated remnants of the spill remain visible on the stovetop. Even from the table the smell is extremely potent. I have never liked fish. I have never liked that soup. Grandma likes it though. At least I think she does it based on how often she makes it. Maybe it is because she likes fish and the tangy taste of soured greens. The recipe comes from China, or maybe Vietnam, it must be. Something smuggled out from her home, a piece of silent luggage stowed away in her brain. Sometimes, I wonder if she thinks I like that soup, though I’m pretty sure she knows I don’t. She told me the name of the dish once when I was little. I forgot it, or maybe I couldn’t store the sounds properly enough to retain it. Maybe I didn’t care. The smell is encircling the open kitchen. It is all I can think about.
Grandma has moved the soup off the stove. It must be ready for plating. I walk towards the cabinet to grab bowls. Grandma’s voice stops me. Tap.
“Guk6 lou4 yap6 min6 yau5 sik6 mat6.” She’s looking at me, cooking spoon in hand.
I raise my eyebrows in response and keep my face blank.
“Guk6 lou4!” Grandma’s voice is raised as she gestures to the oven.
She wants me to look. I move towards it. The lights are off. I reach for the steel handle and pull the door open. A cloud of aromatics, herbs, and toasted breadcrumbs hits me as I find a ceramic dish filled with an array of vegetables sitting in the oven center. Tender looking with a slightly crispy outer layer. They look delicious. Grandma must have left it in the cooling oven to retain heat. I extend my arms out to transport the dish to the table but I'm distracted by Grandma’s flailing arms. I look up to see her hovering over me. Her eyebrows are pressed together. Tap.
“Jit6 ah4!” She's pointing at the vegetable dish.
I know.
I clench my jaw.
“I know Grandma, I’m bringing it to the table now”
I try to keep my voice tempered as I reach in and grasp the plate, lifting it off the oven rack.
It’s hot. Really hot.
The sensation reached my fingers quickly, faster than my body could react. My muscles clench as I process the singeing against my fingertips. This hurts. I feel something leave my throat. Maybe it was a soft scream. My muscles remain tightened as I try to respond. I maneuver my arms to position the dish above the over rack before I release my fingers. The hefty plate releases an ugly clang sound as it makes contact with the wire rack. It’s loud and followed by two more quieter clangs. It vibrates through the kitchen before being absorbed by the TV. A piece of green launches out of the dish and a layer of breadcrumb puffs onto the oven floor. Tap.
“Haaww haat,” Grandma is pointing at the disheveled dish.
“Hot,” She’s mad I dropped it.
She’s looking at me, mouth opened, staring again. Her arm is moving slightly up and down at a fast pace. I look away, down at my fingers. They’re deep pink. No, red, like Red Pockets. They stand out against the paleness of my skin. I rub my fingers together lightly. Some skin has started to peel or lift. It really, really, hurts. I lift my legs towards the fridge to grab some ice. I reach for the freezer handle. Tap.
Grandma grabs my wrist. Tap. Tap.
“Naa4 seui2 cung1”
She’s pulling me. Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Wan1 seui2”
Her hand makes a fanning motion away from the freezer. My fingers are throbbing. I squeeze the handle. It doesn’t help. Grandma is saying something to me. I can’t concentrate enough to hear it. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. I tug on the handle. The door swings open and a cold breeze brushes my body. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Grandma jerks harder.
“Wan1 seui2, wan1 seui2, laang5 seui2 m4 hou2!”
I don’t understand.
I reach into the freezer with my free hand and grab an ice pack. Grandma doesn’t stop her pulling. She’s upset. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Laang5 seui2 m4 hou2! m4 hou2!”
She points at me and then points away. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Wan1 seui2!”
Please stop
“Wan1 seui2!”
I feel something unpleasant stir in my stomach and crawl up my throat. I can’t stop it, everything hurts. I need her to know. I feel my chest vibrate until a shout exits out my mouth. The room is silent.
I look down.
Grandma looks at me, tilts her head into a weak smile and retreats her arm back. Her eyes fall too. My arm is free. I bring the ice pack to my fingers and wince in pain as the coldness meets the burnt skin. Grandma is still staring at me, seemingly suspended in something I cannot identify. I hold her gaze.
I close the fridge.
Thunk.
Grandma doesn’t waver. She’s frozen. Something twists inside me. It’s different. It rises to my chest and doesn’t leave. Stuck in this moment. I try to breathe. It doesn’t work, the breath gets stuck in my chest too. I look down.
“I’m sorry”
It comes out soft and quiet. The squeeze in my chest hasn’t left. I look up. Grandma is at the sink, back faced away from me. I hesitate before walking towards her. The tap is running cool water. She turns to face me.
I offer up my hand.
She takes it and brings it under the running faucet. It feels nice against the burns. Grandma lets go and I stay by the sink soothing my fingers. They’re feeling better. I sit in the rhythmic sound of the water massaging my fingers. It’s soothing. Tap.
“Nei5 seung2 sik6 me1?”
I can smell it. Grandma is holding a bowl of soup, fish soup in front of me. I prepare my face before turning around.
There is no fish in the bowl, just tomatoes.
I look back up at Grandma who is looking at me, waiting. I purse my lips together until a smile forms and take the bowl.
“Thank you, Grandma.”
She smiles back and walks towards the sofa across from the TV. I turn off the sink and follow her. On my way past the dinner table I find it set and plated. Grandma sits down in the spot that is rightfully hers, I take a seat beside her. The TV is singing another variety show. Grandma is watching it, grinning ear to ear. I’m watching as bursts of bubbling laughter escape her.
I look down at my Red Pocket tomatoes. They don’t stand out as much now.