I went to bed wrecked.
A whole day of pushing back against a daughter who wants to be a woman until she’s asked to act like one.
The packet of cigarettes I found in a pouch in her school tote was just the last thing that wrecked me.
Now I knew who had been secretly smoking at her birthday party.
I was outraged that one of her friends dared to smoke in my house.
He stayed downstairs longer and texted me later:
“I think it’s time you make pho again :-)”
Me back: “I don’t want to make pho, can make other noodles.”
Him: “You need to make pho. It takes a lot of time. Patience and care. The beef needs to be frozen in order to slice. The broth takes time. It’s a lot of love.
You need to make pho. 🍜 We want pho 🍜”
I fucking hate making phở.
I hate my kids.
I hate the boyfriend.
I hate my husband.
I hate him telling me to make phở.
I hate myself for cancelling my facial and driving to the butcher instead.
I buy the beef.
I buy the bones.
I leave the butcher looking for ingredients I never have at home.
By the time I’ve been to Mercado Chen for anise, coriander root, and rock sugar, I’ve had enough.
Fucking bones, pot, water, fat, grey foam gathering on top.
The kitchen smells.
I stand there watching the surface.
I skim the scum because someone has to.
By the time I add
Anise.
Cinnamon.
Charred ginger.
Fish sauce.
Salt.
More salt.
I’ve spent hours topping up the water.
Staring at my broth in silence.
By the time I lift the lid again I’m
back in Saigon with him, weeks before our wedding,
back in Sydney Chinatown with my father and my young daughters,
back at Angkor Wat scaling temple steps, his hand steadying me,
back in Phnom Penh having phở for breakfast after we made love all night.
The kitchen smells like a Hanoi street food market.
Rich, sweet, spicy, steamy hot.
I slice the beef frozen because that’s the only way it works.
I lay the noodles in bowls.
I ladle the broth gently so I don’t bruise the noodles.
I place chilli, lime, and coriander on the side.
By the time I call them for dinner,
I’ve spent hours shopping, prepping, cooking.
My cackle of girls rushes in, laughing, arguing, shouting, waving their hair and hands in the air, fighting over bowls and chopsticks and slices of raw beef.
My little one asks, “Is this spicy?”
I place a bowl in front of her. “This one is for you, only a little bit spicy. You can take it.”
He looks up from his bowl, looks at me,
looks at our daughters slurping their phở:
“This is what you made.”
