The Stilt House Zine Issue 03 on Food and Identity is now available!

Purchase directly at lala books at 189 Market Street in Lowell, Massachusetts

TABLE OF CONTENTs

Editor’s Note

“Can you eat prahok?” Narratives of Khmerness and Cambodian Cheese

When I went to Cambodia for the first time in the late 1990s, I had the good fortune to stay with a large family in Tuol Kork, Phnom Penh. They were amazingly kind and welcoming and did so much to make me feel at home, including getting a European-style cake (not easy to find at that time) for my birthday - complete with huge candles, as the small cake candles we use in the U.S. were not available - and singing the first stanza of “Happy Birthday” to me over and over. It is a memory I treasure. 

I also remember the first time I ate prahok. One of the aunties in the family excitedly put a small bowl in front of me, and one of the teenagers proclaimed, “Cheese!!” Looking at that bowl, I saw a concoction of brown chunks in a soup-like sauce, with herbs and spice and chilies. I wasn’t sure what it was, but I thought to myself, “That is not cheese.” Having grown up in the U.S., without much contact with other Khmer, for me cheese came in single square slices (usually wrapped in plastic) that I put between two slices of bread to make a grilled cheese sandwich.

The family members crowded around me to see whether or not I would eat what they had set in front of me – which, I came to learn, was tuk prahok.

In Cambodia, fish is a staple food--not surprising, given that Cambodia is home to the largest freshwater lake in Southeast Asia, the Tonle Sap, one of the most productive inland fisheries in the world. And just as the Tonle Sap ebbs and flows, so too does the supply of fish available to local inhabitants. In order to have fish available year-round, Cambodians have historically collected it during and just after the rainy season and preserved it to consume during the dry season. They chop, dry, salt, and leave it to ferment for several weeks to several months, forming a paste called prahok. Prahok is, shall we say, pungent; its smell is likened to Roquefort or Munster (hence the comparison to cheese). Areas where prahok is being made can be smelled long before one arrives; the aroma is acerbic and can be overpowering. Indeed, when someone uses foul language or expletives, he or she may be called a moat si prahok (mouth that eats prahok). Yet prahok is a signature element in many traditional Cambodian dishes.

As such, when gauging an outsider’s ability to adapt to Khmer culture, one may be asked, “Jeh nyam prahok?” – “Can you eat prahok?” In front of wide-eyed uncles and aunties and children in Tuol Kork, I hesitated before I tried it the first time, but once I tasted it, you might say I never stopped eating it. From that point on, both in Cambodia and the U.S., at every community gathering, every house party, every restaurant, I am looking for it, in its many forms: prahok ang, prahok ktis, prahok jien – I love it all. Liking prahok does not make someone Khmer any more than liking hot dogs makes someone American; but the unique foods of Cambodia, including prahok, are unquestionably intertwined with culture, society and people – with Khmer identity.

This issue of The Stilt House centers on food in Khmer life and culture, both in Cambodia and in diaspora. Food is sustenance, both physical and emotional: the authors in this issue write of how food is connection; food is memory; food is love; food is family. I am so thrilled to be able to share these works with you.

With all best wishes,
Christine M. Su, Editor

Email: christinemarysu@gmail.com

letter from the Executive Director, Lena Sarunn

Dear Community,

When the theme of “Food and Identity” was introduced at the beginning of 2020, I was filled with excitement and anticipation. I was thrilled to witness the distinct narratives and creativity featured in this current issue of The Stilt House Zine: Food and Identity. Having been raised with savory home-cooked meals, Cambodian cuisine and its rich flavors have always triggered a sense of nostalgia for me. The feeling comes from fruitful memories and wholesome experiences that I shared with my family and loved ones. The entries submitted in this issue prove that, although our taste and palette have been collectively informed by the same culture and traditions, we also very much have our own unique perspectives and responses to Khmer food.

As months progressed this year, we were faced with several unprecedented events, and continue to be faced with a series of issues that will define the decades ahead. The world is currently weathering a pandemic, social unrest, and a climate crisis that has undeniably reshaped the lives of millions. Despite all of this year’s challenges, I am grateful that members of the CALAA community are coming together and finding a positive outlet through our programming to cope, express, and share their work with us.

In this election year filled with chaos and complexities, I ask myself: how does food play a role in politics? It is not a coincidence, in my mind, that the Khmer word ជាតិ (“cheate”) means both “flavor” and “nationality.”

Taste is ubiquitous with how we define ourselves, and our collective identity. I turn this question back to you, our reader, and ask: how do you envision our future as we strive to come together as a nation? While there are countless protests across the United States and around the world, it is an important time in history for us to stand up for human rights at the intersection of racial justice, women’s rights, transgender rights, Indigenous rights, environmental justice, and for us to protect our democracy.

The Stilt House Zine provides a platform for the Khmer diaspora and multicultural community to be heard.Regardless of our background and where we came from, this issue of Food and Identity has given all of us a commonality that we can all relate to. Let’s continue to remain persistent and wait for a better tomorrow.

Sincerely,

Lena Sarunn, Executive Director

មួយគ្រាប់ One Grain
Sokunthea Oum

មួយគ្រាប់ មួយគ្រាប់ (muy kreab muy kreab)
One grain one grain

ត្រូវតែរើសរាប់ផងដែរ (trauvte reus reab phng der)
Must be picked up, count also

កូនត្រូវតែដឹង (kaun trauvte doeng)
My child you must know

អង្ករមួយគ្រាប់ហ្នឹង (angkor muoy kreab hnoeng)
This one grain of rice (husked)

បានប៉ះ ញើសនិងទឹកភ្នែក (banpah nyheusa ning tukaphnek)
Have touched sweats and tears

រែកទឹក រែកដី (rek tuk, rek dei)
Carry (with a bar across a shoulder) water, carry soil

លើកឡើង ពីព្រឹកដល់យប់រាល់ថ្ងៃ (leuk laeng pi pruk dl yb ral thgnai)
Lift climb from morning until night daily

ចេញពីគ្រាប់ស្រូវមួយ (chenh pi kreab srauv muoy)
From one grain of rice (unhusked)

បណ្តុះបានពីរបីកួរ (bndoh ban pi bae kuor)
Can produce two, three clusters

អញ្ចឹងទៅ ត្រូវតែដឹង មួយគ្រាប់ ហ្នឹង (anchung thauv, trauvte doeng muy kreab hnoeng)
Therefore, (you) must know this one grain

តម្លៃទំងន់ធ្ងន់ជាងមាស (tomlei tomngn thngon cheang meas)
Value weights heavier than gold.

អ៊ុំសុគន្ធា (Oum Sokunthea)

ថ្ងៃទី ២ ខែមិថុនាឆ្នាំ ២០២០ (June 2, 2020)

Enjoying Khmer Desserts in Battambang, Cambodia
Jenny Rathana Par

My father’s side of the family is from Battambang. For the longest time, I wondered what life was like, what the people were like there. In January 2020, I had the opportunity to visit Battambang with my husband and son. While there, we met my aunts, uncles, and cousins for the first time. We also enjoyed these delicious Khmer desserts called nom a kouw (steamed rice cakes).

Broth & Bones
Sasha Rath

“Khom jowel!”

My brothers and I share a joke about my mother’s number one Cambodian phrase which means “Don’t throw that away!” I bet that was the first full sentence each of us said as babies. Always having had so little, my mother figured how to use everything completely, especially when it came to food and water.

Most Southeast Asian meals are soup entrees with rice on the side. If there was another entree, it always had a soup complement. The best part of the meal was the broth. The shrimp, lotus stems, and baby bok choy that floated around in the pot were more ornamental than central to the dish. No liquid was ever left.

The book Stone Soup was first read to me (and my class of 25 or so) by my kindergarten teacher. My class was mostly made up of kids like me, children of Cambodians who recently arrived in the States. I remember going home and thinking how the poor boy in the book was most likely mistaken. The stone in the story surely must have been a big bone because that was what my mother always used to start her soups.

I grew up cherishing the liquid that held the vegetables and small bits of fish or chicken. So when I was dating my Midwestern-raised boyfriend, it was painful to watch his blond daughters pick out all the solid bits and ignore the sauce, or scoop up all the chicken and leave the curry. I took the opposite approach, using the solid elements to savor every drop of precious sauce.

That was a decade ago, and since then my presence has infused our blended household and given the children new tastes and habits. One of the expectations I have from my upbringing is that children can contribute around the house. So our kids take turns making dinner. 

These cooking responsibilities have given them an appreciation for the work that goes into making a meal and the satisfaction of doing it well and serving others. Learning to blend seasonings, create roux, and make gravies and curries has also enhanced their dining experiences.

Our family rarely dined out, so stay-at-home orders did not affect our meals much other than that our children are now stretching their cooking experiments and learning to fully utilize what is available in the house.

“Khom jowel!”

My mother is sure to lay claim to leftover broth and bones to use as the basis of her soups.

Most recently, my step-daughter dressed and cooked a whole chicken in the Instant Pot. It was moist, tender, and flavorful. As she cleaned up, I anticipated that the leftover liquid, full of nutrients and flavor, would be sent to the garbage bin. But before my mother could say “Khom jowel!” about the remains, someone else piped up.

“Can I save the broth to make chicken soup?”

To my pleasant surprise, our sixteen-year-old already had plans for how she would salvage this valuable half-gallon of home-made chicken stock.

My mother was so tickled, she said she’d just take the bones.

A Party in April
Djuna Chan

My mother clangs the old, beaten skillet over the oil-splatter stove, all the while steadily stirring the turmeric stained batter with a silver soup ladle. She pours a ladle full of the mixture into the hot skillet and skillfully swirls her hand, holding the handle to spread the batter into a thin, neat circle. With a small silver soup spoon, she scoops up the minced chicken and chives stir fry and places it into the center of the crepe followed by the blanched bean sprouts and quickly folds the other half of the crepe over, hiding the meat and vegetable mixture from sight. She deftly lifts the skillet, turns in my direction, and tosses the meat filled crepe onto the flowery, rustic platter I am holding.

I look down at the platter and a crispy, golden half-moon the color of the sun from a picture book peeks out from a row of identical crescents. “Ah, bring the beef skewers to your dad,” my mom orders. “Go eat.”

I hum in answer and place the platter on the  counter near the stove and turn to pick up another in turn. Sitting at the table skewering the beef, my older sister catches my eye and she sticks her tongue out at me. I promptly return the favor as I exit the kitchen into the gentle heat of the April sun. The small garden is overpopulated by white, plastic tables covered by the flimsy fabric of blue tarp, arranged only a scant few feet from one another. White vinyl folding chairs spread around the tables and are scattered around the garden by the guests chasing after the cool shades of the trees. Aluminum trays of homemade dishes and special orders to go from favorite restaurants pile atop the tables next to paper plates, red plastic cups, and liters of soft drinks. I maneuver around the guests, squeezing between chattering, loud aunts and playful little cousins running back and forth between games and eating from their mothers’ plates. All the while tough and boisterous uncles stand against the gates and under the fruit trees drinking from cold bottles of Heineken and Modelo beers like a backdrop. Aunts, uncles, and cousins, not truly aunts, uncles, and cousins but rather family friendships formed through years and years of acquaintances.

Nearing the barbecue where my father stands expertly grilling an assortment of meat and coconut coated corn, my uncle sees me, rises from the table near the grill, and yells out my name. I smile, forced, and place the platter of beef skewers on to the grill table for my father and then my uncle pulls me into a bone crushing hug. He urges me to a seat near my aunt who is pounding papaya in a tall, clay mortar.She looks up and smiles and scoops up the briny papaya salad onto a fresh paper plate and passes it to me. “Wait for your dad to finish the next batch of skewers and chicken. Have some egg rolls instead.” She reaches for a small aluminum tray. “Your Uncle ordered it from that restaurant in Westminster.” She goes ahead and places more than a few onto my plate.

“Thank you, Om Sophie.” I take a bite of one and an explosion of soft cabbage, carrots, and meat explode in my mouth. We all watch my dad flip the beef skewers onto its raw side and the scent of lemongrass instantly permeates the air and the smoke climbs up through the wide slits of the grill and envelops the four of us in a white, blurry haze.

My uncle, my father’s older brother, takes a large gulp from the ice cold, green bottle, an unlit cigarette in the other, and begins his inquisition. “How’s your school? Did you finish yet?”

“No, not yet, Om. One more year.” I look down at the tacky, blue tarp and begin playing with the little hole in the fabric near the edge of the table.

“That’s good, very good.” He nods. “Take your time with school but don’t waste your time,” my uncle says.

The little hole tears a little wider, my fingernail moving underneath the little flap. “I know, I’ll try not to.”

He rolls the cigarette between his thumb and index finger and tilts his heard to the side. “Do you have a job yet?” he inquires. “Studying is good but you need to work, too.”

“No,” I say, “not yet. But I like volunteering.”

“Volunteering is also good, but you need to find a good job soon.” He finishes the bottle now and begins twirling the bottle by its neck. “It’s good that your dad is paying for your school and you get to stay home rent-free, too. Be smart and find a job so you can save money by the time you finish school.”

“Yeah, I’ll try.” I remove my eyes and hand from the tarp and lean back into the chair and soon regret it because the top of the chair digs uncomfortably into my spine.

My aunt cuts in. “Do you have a boyfriend yet?”

“Not yet.” Not really, I want to say. My fists clench in my lap. A boyfriend is wrong, all wrong. Too sharp, loud, and carefree—too different.

“That’s good, though,” she continues, pounding a fresh batch of green, unripe papaya. “Your cousin has one but he’s just kicking air.”

My uncle laughs, short, and finally lights his cigarette. He lifts it up to his lips, inhales, exhales, and the smoke he releases mingles with the fumes from the grill. “You need to make sure what you want in your boyfriend first. Don’t be like your cousin. Look for a boy that is smart and works hard and who can support you.”

“I can work too, though.” I look to my father from the corner of my eye and he stares down resolutely at the meat he is grilling. “I can support myself.”

“Yeah,” my uncle concedes, “but you need someone to protect you and know what he’s doing with his life.”

Oh, but she does know what she’s doing with her life and we support each other in every way. My smile is weak, and my tongue is heavy with the unsaid words I want to scream out. The sun glares down and distracts me with the heat I suddenly feel. All of a sudden, the guests are blaringly loud, the usually sweet scent from the blooming tangerine tree is obnoxious and overly sweet, and the smoke from the grill is overwhelming, leaving me breathless. I quickly stand, jolting the table, and collect the plate of papaya salad and eggrolls.

“Grandpa is probably hungry,” I make up. “I should go bring him and Grandma some food.”

Standing up, my uncle nods and smiles. “Don’t keep him waiting! Here, take some of the meat and corn that your dad just finished!”

I smile back, empty, and walk to my father with a small, empty aluminum tray that my aunt procured from the stack of trays in a clear bag under the table. My father looks up, and I shuffle closer, holding the tray for him. He looks down at me, and I look up at him. He is blanketed by the shadow of the porch and smiles. The wrinkles around his eyes crinkle and I want to cry because everything stops moving too fast, too loud, and too strongly when he smiles that smile. “Here, my girl, take a lot to your grandma and grandpa.” He moves closer, and conspiringly mutters,

“After, you don’t need to come back out if you don’t want to.”

He piles a mountain of glistening beef skewers, pomegranate colored chicken thighs, and charred coconut-braised corn. I gently bump my shoulder against his arm, and he turns back to putting more of the beef skewers I brought out on the grill.

Entering through the kitchen, I see my sister and my mom marinating more chicken thighs and preparing the oil and dutch oven for the chicken wings. I walk past them offering them help but was quickly shooed away by the two of them to go and eat with my grandparents in the living room coffee table. I see them sitting on the sofa and they smile up at me when I place the tray of meat and corn on the table, already set with bottles of water, paper plates, a large bowl of rice, and an assortment of fresh lettuce and cucumbers. A small bouquet of jasmine blooms freshly picked by my grandpa sits at the edge of the table, carefully swaddled into a single banana leaf. I sit down on the carpet and begin making my grandma’s plate and then my grandpa’s. They tell me what they want even though I already know from years of making plates for them. I then make my plate of rice, papaya salad, and beef skewers and I finally tear into a piece of beef from the wooden skewer.

Chewing, my grandpa asks, “Did Brianna come with you?”

“No, Da,” I reply, “she had to work.”

“Make sure to bring food for her then,” my grandpa orders before going back to eat.

“She should learn to eat more Khmer food.”

“Don’t forget like last time,” my grandma chides.

“She must be hungry after work so look after her, too.”

“I’ll make sure. Don’t worry, Ma Yea.” She grunts in response and returns back to her food.

I look at the two of them, silent but soft, and I follow their lead and eat until my stomach is painfully full.

Soup for Breakfast in Prek Kat Village
Danielle Bopha Khleang

The apprehension didn’t set-in until the night before and faded till about hour seven of the first flight. Two Covid tests later and one yet to come, I finally got what I’ve been dreaming of: a bowl of kuy teav and cafe duc-go degah. This breakfast is the very sensation of home and happiness. If I could only spend my whole life in that simple state of ease and joy slurping soup while waiting for ice cubes to water down the thick sweet drink. But eventually I’ll have to fumble my way through paying. This time ming straight up put her hands on my shoulders and playfully shamed me for STILL NOT SPEAKING KHMER. Lol. It was nice to be a familiar face in the neighborhood.

Meals with Loved Ones
Krystal M. Chuon

Mju Yuon (Vietnamese Sour Soup)
Sithis Yim Samnang

“Why do we call this Mju Yuon?” I asked the seller who was selling this dish at a market in Cambodia. I thought this was made here. Ever since. She was too busy with other customers, so she didn’t answer my question, but the thought lingered. The food must have been brought here by the Vietnamese. Vietnam. Why not Mju Vietnam? Why the prerogative word “Yuon”? I have always loved this dish, especially the lotus. It’s sweet, sour, crunchy; it is an explosion of flavour in my mouth. I have grown up with this soup. I have grown to love this soup without any questions about where the name comes from. I have also grown to think of Yuon with contempt without any questions about where the prejudice comes from. Prom Manh, the Ayai singer, knew too well the racism and told many comedic stories of the Vietnamese, one of which narrates the violence and idiocracy of some drunken nationalist Khmers who assaulted a Vietnamese who sold corns. We laugh at this life of a struggling Vietnamese immigrant, who found no justice for her business having been destroyed by some Cambodians. A life governed by prejudice and uncertainty propelled me to find the meanings in this soup. Mju means Sour Soup, a beloved type of soup in Cambodia. Yuon means Vietnamese, the most hated people in Cambodia. In a sense, Mju Yuon can be the beloved Vietnamese, but my home country and the sentiments I have heard dictate me to think of the actual jujot (or sour and bitter) Vietnamese. What is going to be? A dish that unifies the love of the Cambodian and Vietnamese? Or a dish that labels our Khmer hatred on the Yuon? I wasn’t taught to think of this dish or the Vietnamese; I was taught to eat this dish with joy and the Yuon with contempt. Now, I have crossed borders to live in the lands of others. I have seen things that are called racist, but that one soup, I surely missed. That of our own identity, we surely hissed. Even when our otherness is the same, we hate.

Food...The Universal Language of Love
Rosen Yin

Food as Language
Suphada Rom

My yiey hardly spoke any English and what she did speak was barely enough to perform her job at the local hospital. She was a cleaner working the second shift, scrubbing toilets, changing bed sheets, and doing basically anything that required stealth and silence. In a way, my yiey lived a lot of her life in silence, muted by the isolation she felt living in rural Vermont. The Green Mountains were anything but home and more of a salvation set in a foreign country.

Among the impossible language barriers set between my yiey and her surroundings lay a distinct one between my yiey and I. I grew up as a Khmer Vermonter, living a half-life of feeling Khmer in my home and white with my friends. I ate stacks of pancakes slathered in maple syrup. I rode my dark green Huffy bicycle with my friends to the pizza place down the street to get my favorite garlic bread pizza with pineapple. During hot summer days at my babysitters, I would cross the street to buy a cool and refreshing blue raspberry slush puppy at the local gas station which would turn my mouth a toxic wasteland blue for the next few hours. In these moments, I felt just like my friends did, light skin and all.

Not being able to speak my own language rubbed on me as I got older, especially when I went to homes and places where I was surrounded by other Khmer people. Temple visits were especially uncomfortable, given the face-to-face interaction with holy monks and other elders. At thirteen years old I was a whopping five foot five inches, towering over my yiey and at eye level with my mom – cowering behind them was not an option. I felt anxious, embarrassed, and most of all, stupid. I would count down the seconds until it was time to eat because even though eating Khmer style required me to sit in the most uncomfortable position, like a fawn sitting, vulnerable in the grass, I was always hungry.

Khmer meals were some of my favorite and brought a new meaning to the word buffet, especially those served after temple. White ceramic bowls were full of magma colored curries with the heels of chicken drumsticks poking through the surface. Stalks of morning glory, otherwise known as troukoun, piled high and shimmering, slightly iridescent with its slick exterior. Whole fish, mostly unnamable, sat on top of plastic plates, their skins slashed and fried grey with golden edges. Heaps of shredded green mango sat in adjacent bowls with flecks of smashed red chili peppers and purple-green basil. You would think that this was the last supper, where every dish from the Khmer culinary repertoire was represented at the table, or in the case of Khmer meals, the muti-colored faux-bamboo sewn mats.

I have vivid memories of sitting next to my yiey there. At a mere four-foot eleven, she is compact and slightly squat. Her hair curled slightly around her ears, clipped back so it was mostly out of her face. She wore a wedding band for my grandfather who died during the war when my mom was only three. Her necklaces always glimmered and shined, reflecting light onto the lines that had etched themselves into crevices on her face. Her smile was big, stretching from the corners of her mouth to the iris of her caramel brown eyes. At the temple, she would scoop a bowl of rice for me, and pass it to my waiting hands. I would lift the bowl up, inhaling deeply as the steam left my face warm and wet, like the sun after an afternoon rain. I would grab a spoon scrape fish meat off the bone, sliding it on top of my rice mound. Using my spoon and fingers, I would pinch a bit of the green mango salad, placing it next to my fish. My yiey always ate this way, a combination of spoon and hand helped guide food from plate to belly. Crouched over my own bowl, I held my spoon in my left-hand, using it as plow would scoop up snow, to push bits of fish, rice, and salad onto the spoon. One precarious stack later, my spoon met my salivating mouth, which had been playing the flavors of the food in my mind since the first Buddhist chant in the temple earlier that day.

My yiey had a beaming smile and always masticated loudly, in sync with our Cambodian counterparts. It was in these moments where we understood each other best. The Khmer I spoke was sparse and uncomfortable, feeling like jagged fish bones in my mouth. I imagine that feeling was amplified for my yiey, living in this new and white country, with strange food and vulnerable customs. I am sure that by being in the temple, surrounded by people who looked like her, spoke like her, and ate like her, she was comforted, her belly and soul full. And I understood that much, even though I could barely muster a choppy soursdey to other Khmer kids and awkun to elders. That’s the thing about food, though. You don’t have to speak to understand or to communicate. In these moments, the food was the soundwave, the call to our shared ancestors. It was the way in which my yiey showed me our culture. In her own way, she was saying, “This is your food. These are your people,” and I was listening.

Food Culture
Chann Chum

Food is a universal language and is essential for our well-being. Food brings people together, whetheryou’re sharing dishes with your loved ones family-style, celebrating a milestone such as a graduation, wedding, or holiday or even taking photos of food and uploading it to your Instagram. Some people consider eating and drinking to be a major social activity in their culture. Food is the physical manifestation between our relationship with Mother Nature and the crops and harvests that she provides. Food can also evoke all of our five senses.

First, you see the dish with your eyes. Second, you smell the incredible aromas wafting through the air. Third, you finally take that first bite that you’ve been waiting for and taste all of the goodness and umami in the dish. I think that food can really break down barriers and ignite conversations with strangers, especially with a culture that you might be unfamiliar with.

Growing up, I had always been really curious about the world around me and tried to look at things with an open mind. This same mentality applied to food. I had Food Network on almost every single day and religiously watched shows and documentaries such as Anthony Bourdain’s: No Reservations, Bizarre Foods with Andrew Zimmern, Chef’s Table, Ugly Delicious with David Chang, and Salt, Fat, Acid, Heat to name a few. I really wanted to try all of these amazing dishes that all of these chefs were eating. So I made it a point to always try and order things I’ve never had before whenever I dined out at a restaurant and to avoid chain restaurants. I’ve always been a big believer in creating new experiences for myself no matter where I travel to. Food can really evoke so many different memories, emotions, and feelings.

A specific scent like fresh lemongrass might bring me back to a time in my mother’s kitchen when she would make sweet and sour lemongrass soup with pineapples, tomatoes, and pork spareribs or fish. Or a dish as simple as rice with soy sauce, eggs and occasionally sausage, will always be a constant reminder of a comfort dish I would eat a lot growing up, when there wasn’t really anything else to eat. I still enjoy that dish to this day. If I’m thousands of miles away from home, eating this dish is like carrying a piece of home with me wherever I go.

I Like Eggs
Johnny Im

Fried Eggs (ពងមាន់ចៀន) with (ជាមួយ) sa-om (ស្អំ), is one of my favorite food.

Eggs? You’re asking? A simple egg recipe with a complex flavor from this herb native to South and Southeast Asia. This simple egg recipe was what shaped my

love for cooking South and Southeast asian dishes. It brings me back to my happy place as a child, where I was carefree and stress-free, which is why I cook and experiment with dishes! It just takes all the stress away!

Fried Eggs with Sa-Om
(Senagalia Pennata)

Classic Cambodian/Thailand/Lao/Burmese Breakfast
(Best served with plain white porridge or steamed rice)

Ingredients

3 eggs

Few sprigs of Sa-om (Cha-om)
washed and leaves picked

Garlic glove minced

1/2 teaspoon of sugar

1/4 teaspoon of fish sauce

1/4 teaspoon soy sauce

Pinch of black pepper

Pinch of chicken soup mix

Pinch of MSG

“This Is How We Party” Food Pilot series
Channbunmorl Sou

“This Is How We Party” Food Pilot series looks at how different culture celebrates through food, music

and dance. We hope to bridge the gap between marginalized communities in hopes to humanize the experiences of people of color. The pilot episodes create the narrative of the Khmer American identities through the celebration of Khmer New Year, information about a Khmer organization providing multi-generational services and highlighting the first ever Khmer Entertainment awards showcasing Khmer American talent.

Cambodian BBQ Quails
Mellanie Chum

Ingredients

3 quails

2 tablespoon black peppercorns
(roasted and crushed)

4 tablespoon brown sugar

1 tablespoon garlic powder

1 clove of grated garlic

½ teaspoon sea salt

1 tablespoon oyster sauce

1 tablespoon chicken bouillon

1 tablespoon soy sauce

2 tablespoon olive oil

1 teaspoon sesame seed oil

In a pan, roast the black peppercorns until aromatic on low heat. Crush black peppercorns in a mortar with a pestle. Then add it into a bowl with brown sugar, garlic powder, grated garlic, oyster sauce, chicken bouillon, soy sauce, olive oil and sesame seed oil and mix it all together. Clean quails and cut them in half. In a bowl, marinate the quails in the sauce mixture until each quail is well coated. Refrigerate quails overnight and grill or bake the next day. Cook quails for 30 minutes until golden brown.

Salawmachu
Sidney Chum

There is a saying, “You are what you eat” and I firmly stand by that. I grew up in Lowell, MA, a city thriving with Cambodian immigrants. My mother is from Phnom Penh. She came here with little knowledge of the culture, language, and food. My mother’s brain is like a library filled to the brim with cookbooks. Growing up, she made traditional Cambodian cuisine. One dish stood out among the others. That dish was called salawmachu. We would have this dish almost every day. After a year of eating salawmachu, I realized that I was becoming the salawmachu. I would have dreams of bathing in it – it was bad. You are what you eat, so I became salawmachu.

Homecoming
Moleca Mich

Midnight—

Steam escapes the rice cooker,
rises into the kitchen air and in an encounter
repeated innumerably throughout generations
the sweet fragrance of jasmine rice
meets the simmer of somlaw machu on the stovetop.

The aroma of kreung drifts towards the doorway,
passing pots rooted with the kaffir lime trees
attentively cultivated to aid in its creation:
freshly plucked leaves now accompanied with
lemongrass garlic galangal shallots turmeric
amalgamated in stone by mortar and pestle.

Mak and Pa greet me as I take off my shoes,
my body weary from travel across state lines
and a workday so inundated that my mind
relinquished its need to eat again,
carelessly forgetting the hunger that my parents endured
because they believed in a future worth surviving for.

I eagerly approach the warm meal that awaits me,
feeling my shoulders ease
and my stomach remembering to rumble.
When the first spoonful reaches my tongue,
it fills me with a gratitude profound.
I am home.

I Miss Sweet Potatoes
Sophia Lee

Reaching over, the parents handed steaming hot, half peeled sweet potatoes to their children. One for each. Their kids, actually, growing teenagers, grabbed the sweet potatoes with huge smiles and bit into them, steam hitting their faces.

“Wah! I really miss sweet potatoes!” I declared, watching that TV scene. It reminded me so much of my family.

“Did you ever eat sweet potatoes with your parents growing up?” I nudged my husband.

“Huh? No,” he continued reading. He didn’t bother looking up from his book, sitting beside me as I watched a K-drama.

“Ahhh… but I love sweet potatoes,” I sighed.

Growing up, Ba often toasted them in the oven, but he microwaved them too if we were short on time. He’d peel the top half for me, then hand it over piping hot, a napkin wrapped around the bottom. He rarely asked if we wanted any, he’d just toast them and automatically offer us one, as if that’s what dads innately do.
I never declined, always happy to receive.

“Aw kun (thank you), Ba.”

Other days, Ba toasted plantains. They were already sweet, but tasted even better with a slightly burnt, caramelized top. He’d slice and toast a whole batch. My little sister and I pranced in and out of the kitchen, licking our sticky fingers and lips from the warm plantains.

Ba even gave us sugar cane; he grew it himself in our own American backyard. He chopped down a stalk, peeled it, then passed me a small chunk. “Here. Suck the juice, but don’t eat the stalk. It’s natural. Much better than the white stuff from the store.”

“Awkun, (thank you) Ba.”

A few days later, I continued watching this same K-drama, Answer Me, 1988.

“Where did you go today?” Mom questioned her daughter, Duk Son.

In the background, the eldest daughter announced, “Oma (mom) is missing money from her wallet.”

Shocked, Duk Son answered, “Oma! I didn’t steal money from your wallet! How could Oma and Unni (older sister) accuse me?!”

“I didn’t accuse, I am just wondering…” Mom walked out.

Still upset, Duk Son shouted from her room, tears running down her face. “Oma! I wouldn’t steal from you! I wouldn’t! I didn’t and I never have!” she kicked her feet on the ground in frustration.

A moment later, Mom walked back in the room.

“Sweet potato?”

Duk Son looked up, still hurt, but didn’t argue back. She looked at her mom with an expression that said, I would never refuse food.

She took the sweet potato and bit into it, as her mom wiped the tears from her face.

Watching that particular scene, I had a flashback.

~ ~ ~

It was a hot afternoon, and Mak and I were in the midst of an hour long argument. She scolded me, and instead of being a respectful Asian daughter, I yelled back, rearing an ugly attitude (of which I’m so ashamed now). We argued into the evening, until our voices were hoarse, and the air sticky and heavy.

By dinner time, my stomach growled. Guess I’m going to starve…

Then, a voice pierced the silence.

“Rice is on the table!” Mak shouted, her voice carrying upstairs.

On the table, there was not just rice, but also two entrees to accompany the rice.

~ ~ ~

It finally dawned on me.

Ahh. So this is why I miss sweet potatoes.

Because it’s not about the sweet potatoes, really.

It’s through sweet potatoes (and plantains, and sugar cane, and rice…) that my parents have shown me they love me.

I don’t know why it took me a lifetime to figure that out.

Sigh.

Ma’s Canh Chua Recipe:April-December 1975
Kevin Park, Channbunmorl Sou, and Mylo Lam

Audio link to Khmer Translation

Poem by Mylo Lam

Canh chua, translated as “sour soup,” is a tamarind-based stew that originated in the Mekong Delta.

Ingredients

¾ cup of “I barely know this man”

½ teaspoon of “I barely know his father”

6 cups of “I guess we’re all running away together now”

2 tamarind pods – picked from the tallest tree in the middle of a storm

1 pineapple – quartered and sliced (good luck)

2 tomatoes – quartered and sliced (good luck)

bean sprouts – as many as you can get your hands on

1 catfish – avoid the blood swimming downstream, if possible

Protein alternatives:

• 1 handful of escargots (i.e. edible snails)

• 1 non-venomous snake (go for the head with a blunt object)

8 cups water – again, avoid the blood

Dash of whichever herbs and spices you can scrounge or barter for:

• Thai basil

• red chili pepper

• garlic

sugar (get some from a fruit?)

1 deck of cards

Instructions

1. Two weeks before April 17, have a dream. All around you is fire except for a 40-foot statue of Quan Am off in the distance.

2. Flee Phnom Penh. When your boyfriend tells you to run away with his family, refuse. That relationship isn’t going to last anyway.

3. Be on the run for two weeks. Then, while running through the fields, see your boyfriend and his father

chasing after you. No one else in their family is with them.

4. For safety reasons, collect ingredients late at night/early in the morning and with a lookout.

• For the tamarind, have someone at the base of the tree, ready to catch it.

5. Add water to a pot and bring to a boil.

• While water boils, play cards to pass the time.

6. Add catfish/escargots/snake to pot.

7. Add sugar.

8. Smash tamarind to a fine pulp (feel free to use same blunt object used to kill snake).

• As your boyfriend sits there, realize you’ll probably have his children.

• Look over to your boyfriend’s dad, realize he’ll be your father-in-law.

• Say nothing.

9. Add tomatoes and cook for 2 minutes, then turn off heat.

10. Toss in bean sprouts, garlic, and Thai basil.

11. Quietly enjoy this meal.

12. Eight months later, get to the border of Vietnam.

• Wait until the sun rises on January 1st.

• Have your future father-in-law use what little Vietnamese he knows to get you in.

• Hope you can get the ingredients needed to make proper canh chua.

13. Have a dream you’re walking down a narrow concrete stairway, leading to the outside. At the base is a

two-headed snake gazing at you.

• Realize you’re pregnant with your first daughter.

This poem was originally in the Summer 2019 Issue of The Coachella Review.

Ode to Durian
Mel Taing

When I first met you, I didn’t have the language to call you by your name. Instead, I opened my mouth so I could taste you on my tongue. I think I understand you better this way -- by taste alone. I listen to my senses, and I leave the senseless people behind.

People like to complain about you. They say you stink. They call you weird and gross. I was told that my white uncle passed out when they brought you to a family gathering. I couldn’t understand why. I think you’re heavenly.

I’m always searching for you because you’re hard to find in this part of the world. You don’t travel well, and I know that airports have given you grief for years. It’s not fair that people treat you this way. You’re perpetually misunderstood. It’s as if the language you speak cannot ever be translated in this country. I feel like I have to give all these disclaimers about you. I tell people not to be alarmed by your spikes. I attempt to prepare people for your scent, knowing the second they encounter this, they’ll back away in disgust. I stumble on my words as I try to explain the way you slide effortlessly between sweet and savory. I mention all these other familiar tastes in the hopes that they could understand -- flavors like mango and banana and onion. I don’t know why I try so hard. You’re ineffable.

To be honest, I see so much of myself in you. I see it in the way we slide between different modes. I see it in the way people struggle to understand us. Do you know how hard it is to try to explain how I got here? I try to condense my life story into only a few sentences, to package the narrative into something cohesive and consumable. I warn people that my story is a war story. I try to prep them for words like “genocide” and “starvation” and “bombing.” Sometimes, it feels impossible -- connecting the dots between my war-free American upbringing and my parents’ tragic war-torn trauma. Like trying to connect bananas with onions.

Bananas, onions, Cambodian, American… These things are just a part of us, right? We don’t need to justify these seemingly opposite things. We don’t need to always explain who we are. You certainly don’t need me to do it for you. You don’t care how you smell. You offer yourself humbly to the world -- take it or leave it. Love me or hate me. Accept me or reject me. You don’t care either way. You know who can handle you. You know who can hold space for you. Evolution has taught you to armor yourself. I have much to learn from you, dear Durian.

Every time I taste you, I am filled with a deep sense of belonging. You are the bridge back to the motherland I’ve never been to. Even though we were born on opposite sides of the world, I will always cherish what we share -- complexity. A shared story that cannot be contained into a single flavor. We are ineffable. You are my perfume, and I’ll wear you like armor.

Cambodian Beef Sticks
Noeun Chhim

Childhood memories of playful gatherings
Laughing delightfully on the colorful horse swings
Taking turns going down the slide
Racing each other, who’s down for the ride
Lemongrass paste
The holy grail in most Khmer dishes
These delicious snacks won’t go to waste
Lightly charred, thin slices of beef
Grill them up, oh the aroma to say the least
Sweet, pickled radishes and daikon shreds
These hungry bellies are fully fed
Happy, smiling children
Run like the wind

I’m Not Hungry Anymore
Bunthay Cheam

Do you know how it feels to be hungry?
I mean, really, really hungry? Like, starving?

I can still taste the grit and dryness that had betrayed my expectations when I took that first bite into the discarded banana peel in the middle of the dirt trail. My stomach was churning in its void. It was full of hollowness and as it talked to me through long deep moans and erratic pops, I felt it slowly, beginning to turn on its own walls as if it were consuming itself.

My days were spent quite lonely; Ma and Pa were far off in the chaka I’d assume, but to be honest I’m not exactly sure where. By sunrise they had disappeared with all the others, sinking into the landscape of rice fields the further they walked. More often than not, it wasn’t until the sun went down that I’d see them again.

I spent days along these red dirt trails by myself; waiting, thinking, hungry, imagining. There was an old lady, I’m not sure of her age, a real old lady that I’m not even certain could even hear the sound of my voice nor had the vision to see my 4 year old famished body, who I assumed was supposed to be my caretaker while Ma and Pa were out working.

She never did though. The only words uttered my way were, “go outside and play.”

So I spent many days alone, many times accompanied only by my hunger, the only feeling that took the time to stay by my side through the hours of isolation, the only feeling that was strong enough to hold on, strong enough to burrow a place into my gut.

Sometimes, (most times), I’d stay close to the thatch bamboo houses where we lived and spent all day pacing back and forth along the trail closest to us. Once in awhile I’d gather the courage to go beyond, just up to the woods on the edge of the rice fields.

One day, I decided, things would be different. This time I’d walk all the way to the rice fields hoping I’d catch a glimpse of Ma and Pa. As I approached the woods, I decided to take a shortcut through them and at the same time use it as cover from any Khmer Rouge.

As I made my way through, a man suddenly surprised me. He was leaning against a tree smoking a cigarette, sleeves rolled up, relaxed with a slight grin of satisfaction as if he just succeeded in the most kindest of deeds.

He was dressed differently than all of us. He wasn’t dressed like a Khmer Rouge soldier nor was he dressed like Ma and Pa, instead, he was draped in all green camouflage.

I stood there frozen with surprise. He noticed me after a several seconds, turned to me and gave me a wide grin. Our eyes met and as they did so, he took slower and longer drags on his cigarette. Then leisurely, he took his cigarette from the corner of his lips as if to give them more space to grin. He brought his index finger to his lips.

I stood there for a few moments and then looked around to try and see what it was that I was supposed to be quiet about. Then I noticed something several feet in front of him, something with a moist glisten, partially covered by black cloth.

As he continued his slow drawn out puffs of vindication on his cigarette, I slowly took steps closer, cautiously and quietly to get a clearer picture. When I realized what it was, I stopped dead in my tracks. It was a Khmer Rouge soldier. I could tell by the hat and the flip flops made of discarded tires, they looked nicer than what Ma and Pa wore.

I stood there in an almost calm disbelief and rather than feel pity and disgust for what I was looking at, I marveled at how it was possible that what was in front of me was a human being; it blew my mind.

How this managed to happen without detection from anyone else, I’ll never know.

I stood there for a while, wordless as did he, staring, sharing the silence, interrupted by the occasional sounds of indistinct yelling far off in the fields.

It was the first time, in a long time, that I didn’t feel hungry.

Glass of Milk
Kristin Rouille

Loving my first was spicy. A deep desire, my timid existence falling into fire with every bad decision that fell from his lips. Those lips. Spices of Spanish origins, skillfully assorted through years and years of generation sufferings mixed with the subtleness of eventual sweet liberation. The taste was strong, passed from his mother and her mother before. Women who carried family burdens on their backs across rivers and valleys. Searching for a safe place to start a family. After some time, the flavors became too much to handle. I found myself gasping for relief, anything to calm the burning swirling inside. The more I consumed of him, the harder it was to breathe.

My second was the milk. I found him and quickly gulped all that he had to offer in hopes of some sort of relief. It worked but there was always a longing from inside. A thought that maybe if I tasted the spice again that it wouldn’t be so bad this time. So I did and each time it got too hot to handle, I always had a glass of milk in hand. I didn’t want him, his flavor has bland but used him to snuff out the pain from the spicy man.

I’m not proud of how I broke a man because my temptations were too far out of hand. I should have known from the first time I got burned that it wasn’t long before he’d do it again. I wanted the flavor of danger without the wretched burn. I wanted to be the sweetness that the spicy man yearned. I hope that you take from my mistakes that a glass of milk is better served with a cookie that can give the love it takes.

More Cheesecake
Jeremy Chun

My first words spoken as a sentence: “more cheesecake”.
Only a child, staring into the oven, watching one bake at the time.
Right then at that moment who would guess the lifelong love affair.

Eating each bite with religion, sharing none everyday since.
Cheese sticks at Bananas, but who doesn’t love cheese?

Hot dogs at the ballpark, watching those guys play ball.
Early breakfasts in the morning, but who doesn’t love bacon and coffee?
Each of these I grew up to identify with as a young man.
Seasons celebrating with family eating pot roast, maybe ham, turkey always mashed potatoes.
Enjoyment?! Way beyond! It becomes tradition, it becomes memories, it becomes family.
Cambodian food today in my life. Amok, kroeung, prahok, and lemongrass. I found a love!
A lime leaf, and a flavor now becomes family, tradition and builds memories.
Khmer! Most can’t pronounce it. I try to learn more about it, but who shouldn’t love it?
Eating food, identity in food? I welcome all new experiences to come.

A Tribute to My Loving Mom, Ruom Cheng
Samantha Chhrech

Banh Chao, a savory Cambodian crepe. Upon hearing the words, banh chao, my heart is filled with excitement and anticipation. It’s a simple recipe with basic ingredients. However, there is one ingredient that is unique to me and my family -- mung beans. My mom would always put mung beans in the fillings. I always ask, “Why do you put mung beans in the fillings?” I never really cared for the taste of mung beans because it’s bland, but when it’s combined with the chicken and onion along with other spices it tasted amazing. My mom would say, “Mung bean is a binding that keeps all the ingredients together.” Now that I’m older, the mung beans in the recipe are a representation of love from my mom. The recipe may be simple, but the process of making banh chao is filled with love!

Untitled
Melissa Chum

I enjoy cooking because it makes me feel proud of my culture and I want to make my parents feel proud that I know how to make their own home country’s cuisine, considering that I am born in America. Cooking is relaxing. Cooking makes me happy.

មីបំពង (mee bampong)
Marcella Tea

Hand fulls of bean sprouts and sliced scallions

Thin curls of puffed fried rice noodles

Warm and vibrant and tangy

Sweet and sour pork and tofu curds

The sizzle as the sauce meshes with the crunchy vegetables and crispy noodles

Satiating my longing for fermented fish, spice, and nostalgia

I try to look up variations of the dish online

I search up: "fried rice noodle pork tofu vinegar Khmer Cambodian food”

it doesn't come up

“did you mean?…”

no not pad thai

no not lort cha

“authentic Cambodian food”

"traditional Khmer food”

what is traditional khmer food

 this is my traditional food !

ម៉ាក់ (ma) sounds out and spells it out using the Khmer keyboard

I search up mi bombong ¿

Both confused and left disappointed and frustrated

wtf google

why can’t I find it

frustrated and scared about the future

frustrated bc what else do I not know 

what else was lost during the food & cultural shift during the Khmer Rouge

what else do I not know that I don’t know 

scared about my culture (and knowledge of it) fading away

taking in what has been/is shared

legacy

Num Pang Pate
Joan Chun

Oh, look at you

All those beautiful colorful layers of yum

My hands start physically making an outline of you

Oh no I must stop -- I am embarrassing myself at the sandwich shop

I can’t wait to bite into you

Crunch.

My heart is filled with pure joy and I don’t think any other sandwich can make me feel this way

Dare I say it-- You make me whole

Num Pang. Bread.

Pate. Liver Paste.

It sounds so wrong, but it tastes so right

I carry you in my hand and protect you like you’re worth more than gold

Oh no -- with every bite -- the crispy crumbs of the bread fall slowly like the leaves in Autumn

I don’t want any part of you to go to waste -- not one bit

The pickled vegetables play in my mouth with their subtle sour taste and touch of sweetness

I’m elated

I finish my Num Pang Pate with bitter sweetness.

So glad to have met you

So sad to say goodbye

When I come home, my mom asks me, “Why are you smiling like that?”

I smile with my eyes and slowly curve my lips and whisper…

Num Pang Pate

Bánh xèo
Xuan Nguyen and Tai Duong

We like to align ourselves with banh xeo, also known as the Vietnamese Pancake. There are many ways that you can enjoy this delicious dish, such as wrapping it in lettuce with your choice of herbs, making a salad bowl, or going one step further and wrapping it with rice paper for maximum texture and flavor. With the variety of ways to eat it, there are only three main ingredients in making it; rice flour, turmeric, and coconut milk or water. We relate ourselves to the versatility of banh xeo because as a couple we are very simple, we don’t ask for much in the relationship other than the three main things a good relationship should have; love, communication, and compassion. We are simple yet always make the best out of it. We enjoy doing little things with each other; fishing, going to the farmers market, or doing laundry together. Just like there are a variety of simple combinations to eat the banh xeo, at the end it still tastes delicious and as for our relationship, the simple things that we do for and with each other, at the end it always brings us joy.

Hide And Seek
Sophea Pich

When I think of Durian, Rambutan, Mangosteen, Logan, and Lychee, I often think of Canada. I  think of my siblings and I packing ourselves into my parent’s dark green minivan and then driving the two hours it took to get from Seattle, Washington to Vancouver, BC. Back then you couldn’t get any of these  fruits fresh in the states. The trip was short and loud, filled with a concussion of sounds. There was  yelling, laughing, shouting, teasing, crying. And that was just from the Cambodian rock songs my dad  played from his cassettes tapes. We were not the subtle kind of Asians. It was only when we arrived at the border did our mood suddenly change from animated excitement to quiet fear. Even if the lines were long and it was hours before we found ourselves in front of border patrol, my parents insisted we made ourselves as invisible as possible. I was aware that we were scared of being taken away, but I never understood why or where we would be taken away to. I realize now it’s because we didn’t belong yet. Neither here (in the US) nor there (in Canada). None of us were citizens yet. We were like mice scurrying across the kitchen, in broad daylight, to grab what morsels we could.

Sweet succulent morsels, flesh, skin, seeds, juice. It all awaited us on the other side. Once we passed the test and the White officer deemed us safe to enter, we made a quick stop to use the bathroom and exchange cash. Then we drove straight to one place. The only place we knew. The place I still secretly seek out, no matter where I am in the world: Chinatown.

We parked. Precariously. Then we split up. Mom would buy the fruit and the meat. More oftenthan not, the meat was roasted duck, tucked like an aromatic greasy baby into a round tin foil with a thin White cardboard top. Dad and I would walk to the shop. I’m sure it had a name, but we never bothered to learn what it was called. Dad knew where it was and I knew where we were going. It was bright like a hospital, except it served food. There was two rows of hot options, but I don’t remember what any of them were. There were two pots of soup, but I don’t really remember them either. You picked two hot items that came with one of the soups and of course, rice.

I only remember the curry. It was green. Sometimes more yellow than green, which made we suspicious, but never enough to not eat it. The chicken was always tender. They used thighs. It was well spiced, salty, and saucy. Dad ordered it every time. Even if they ran out, he would wait for more to be made. We would eat Asian style. Mostly in silence. But in that silence I remember my Dad smiling at me as I jammed the perfect ratio of rice to chicken curry into my mouth. I could tell that he was happy, seeing me happy -even if it was hard for him to share this one small meal between the two of us.

Without cellphones or much planning we would somehow find my mom again, weaving her way through the crowds. If she was smiling ear to ear it meant she had a feast for us. If she was frowning it meant she wasn’t completely satisfied with the prices or the quality of what she had found. Still, both of her hands would be gripping multiple plastic bags filled with all our favorite exotic fruits.

Mine was Rambutan. I loved how silly it looked on the outside, but how serious it seemed on the inside. If Rambutan wasn’t a fruit, it could easily be mistaken for a sea anemone. Oblong like a kumquat but two to three times bigger, with thin, harmless hairs protruding from its body; never one color, but instead varying shades of red, maroon, and even purple. The meat was firm, the flesh sweet, but not sticky. I ate so many, I knew intimately how to bite just deep enough into the skin without harming the flesh. I would then tear the rest of the skin apart with my fingers and a smooth cloudy white fruit would slip out of hiding and into my mouth.

I ate many, but never enough. Mom always bought more than we could ever eat. She couldn’t help herself during those trips so we had to figure out a way to help her. It happened like this: Dad would drive us to the closest Asian-friendly park. The one with all the rose gardens. Mom would set out the plastic mat along with the food and urge everyone to eat right away. No one would listen. My siblings and I would run through the park and play. Dad would take a nap. Mom would eat alone while continuing to yell at us to, EAT! EAT! EAT! But at some point we had to heed her call, because we had to return home, and we knew it was forbidden to bring any of these fruits we treasured back with us. 

So we ate as the sun went down on the park. We ate as we drove, slowly back to the border. We ate as we pulled over at another park, right before the border, because we still hadn’t eaten it all. We ate until our stomachs hurt. We ate until it became clear that we had no where else to put anything…

-Except in our shoes, our socks, the pockets inside our jackets, mom’s bra, underneath the seats, in between the seat cushions, the side panels of our minivan. Whatever obscure place we could hide what we couldn’t eat (or with good Asian conscience throw away) we hid. And then we held our breath.

All in Perspective
Sasha Rath

When I was 15 years old, I returned home to my mother in a huge huff. I learned something about myself through a documentary I saw at school. I was more upset that my mother never told me about it. Before I even set down my sac-à-dos, I went straight to her for an explanation.

“Why did you never tell me that our people ate crickets?” I demanded this in English even though my mother only spoke Khmer.

She looked at me and saw from my expression that there was something wrong.

“What is it, my child?” she responded affectionately in Khmer.

“Crickets!” I screamed in Khmer. “It’s some sort of food Westerners go all the way to our country to enjoy. You never made any of it for us!”

 My mother is characteristically gentle in her delivery, while I am full of opinions.

When she understood what I was upset about, she turned into a person I had never met. I do not remember a time when her face transformed into a scowl and her voice shook the house like thunder at something I ever said. Until then.

“Don’t be stupid,” she said. “You really want to eat that stuff? When you have absolutely nothing to eat, you learn to eat what is available. Who voluntarily chooses cockroaches over fish? Believe me, there was a time when there was nothing. People only ate those things to survive.”

That was almost 20 years ago when she recalled how she survived a genocide of 20 years before then. She called herself lucky, but I know there was more to it than that.

My mother doesn’t remember her parents, who died shortly after she was born. She remembers being cared for by her grandmother, who died when she was five years old.

She entered the household of an elder sibling as a “help” to assist with chores, and became the main caregiver for the nieces and nephews she ended up raising. I would eventually learn that her challenging start to life shaped a diminished perception of her self: she always felt herself a burden, always in someone’s way. Yet her experience made her resourceful and industrious balanced by gratitude and humility.

For years, she used to tell me how she carried her baby in the jungle, eating only a handful of rice a day while running from bullets. I feel sheepish serving congee to her now during this COVID-19 pandemic. But somehow the half-cup of rice boiled in a gallon of water is what comforts this septuagenarian.

Sweeter than Condensed Milk
Joan Chun

Decades of friendship
Exchanged in more ways than one
We spent our first hard-earned dollars on mee ga thung next to City Hall in Downtown Lowell
Laughing and smiling
Feeling naughty for not going straight home after school
Our Khmer identities connected us
And kept us strong as we go through life together
With similar struggles

During the hotter weather
We craved shaved ice
Each of us picking our favorite ingredients to go in the $1 cup
Red beans, basil seeds, palm seeds, grass jelly
Topped with ice, sugar water, green or red syrup
And then finally kissed heavily with condensed milk
The perfect treat to devour
As we chatted about homework and dreams

Friendship sweeter than condensed milk

Sometimes we cry
We cry together, “I’m not perfect! I’m not perfect! My mom doesn’t love me because I’m not perfect!”
We all agree being the perfect Cambodian daughter is too difficult
Over sushi, pad Thai, Korean chicken wings we heal while sharing our favorite meals
Barely through verbalized words and mostly through emotions shown only through the slight of change in the eyebrows
We understand each other
Say no more my friend
I understand

Friendship sweeter than condensed milk

From “Will you be my friend?” In elementary school
To “Friends 4eva” in middle school
From “I wish we were in the same class” in high school
To “Let’s go to an Asian American student conference together!” in college

Throughout each of these time periods, someone always asks, “Remember that Sailor Moon episode when Serena makes Japanese curry?”

Special occasions call for eggrolls, fried rice, beef sticks, pickled vegetables, grilled clams

And we gather so we can plan to save our pennies to travel chasing famous chocolates in San Francisco, deep dish pizzas in Chicago, hybrid desserts in SoHo, pasta in Venice, crepes in Montreal, jerk chicken in Jamaica, fried squid in Boston, moco locos in Honolulu, dim sum in Chinatowns, tequila boom booms in Mexico

All of it- we wanted all of it
Even with all the obligations and conflicting schedules, we made it work and got to taste all of it

My heart is full when after all these years
We still get so excited when we make the time to go out for
Sticky Rice and Mango
And hot pot, chicken tikki masala, and stinky, wholesome, chewy, hand pulled noodles

Always remember
You’ve got a friend in me
Ready for a chat over boba and pho
To go over life’s blessings and sorrows
A friendship safely wrapped in banana leaves and steamed with care
Friendship sweeter than condensed milk

យ៉ៅហន (yao hon)
Marcella Tea

A Simple Recipe (Ginger Meat Stir Fry)
Sithis Yim Samnang

Ginger is expensive, here,
and meat, too, Mak. 
Simple quickly prepared dish
because you spent
the entire day stuck on
the wheel of tailoring;
the entire day, await
the presence of your sons;
the entire day, thinking of
how to say “I love you”

And so you made us food.

Cut the ginger,
Splinter them,
so each bite as spicy as another
each splinter as fractured as another

Cut the meat,
feel the tenderness
of its flesh,
of your own,
of your mother.

Separate them,
yours from your family
as you grow a self under
your skin. 

To cut them
To cut yourself off 
For independence
of the taste
of the fragrance
of the spice

But to mix them for one
mouth-watering dish
as the stove fully ignited.

The fragrance of self
from the ginger.
The taste of a family
from the meat
The balance of independence
from the bowl of rice.

Cambodian Hot Pot Night
Jenny Rathana Par

Food for the Soul
Kristin Rouille

I was made to be food for the soul, not eye candy.

The way my love moves through your body, lighting up 
your deepest senses. 

My taste won’t last unless savored, the sweet irony of a 
quick bite. 

I can satisfy you yet keep you longing for another taste 
in just one spoonful. 

Like the scorching taste of cayenne, my taste lingers 
long after you try to snuff me out. 

 I was handcrafted with love, time well spent in every hip 
and curve. 

 I’m brittle but I won’t break if your once gentle hands 
develop rough intentions. 

 Your voice alone can make me melt like candy if done so 
correctly. 

 I am food for the soul, not an appetizer on a tray; I was 
built to last.

Stick to your ribs with my love, but still make you fix 
another plate. 

Not a taffy you pull from your teeth in aggravation, I am 
melt-in-your-mouth temptation. 

There’s a lot of me that’s been passed down through generations, 
flavors and spices formulated from liberations. 

My voice is rough from spoken revolutions but enough 
sweetness remains for a tender kiss. 

I warn you before we get too deep, you will crave me. 

My essence is well-sought after, for there is only one of 
its kind.

I was made to be food for the soul baby, I am not your 
eye candy.

Until the Next Meal, I Wait
Sophia Lee

There must be a special kind of connection between us, from person to person, that intertwines our appetite for food and our appetite for life.  The food we gather, share, and devour triggers the outpouring of our memories, both haunting and humorous, harrowing and humbling.  So many of my family's stories are dished out only in the kitchen, at the stove or upon the table, and only at designated hours: breakfast, lunch, and dinner.  Some of them I swallow, others I digest, and others I remember only faintly.  

At that very moment, when our stomachs grumble with hunger... is when my parents or elder relatives slip into nostalgia.  And their hearts become ajar.  

~  ~ ~ 

A feast of raw beef topped with an uncooked egg, baskets full of fresh vegetables, and a plate of rice noodles awaited us as the flat iron grill began to heat up.  Being Thanksgiving, my cousins did not forget the turkey, and they brought it out hot from the oven, steam rising from the tin foil serving platter.  Rather than the usual breadcrumb stuffing, it was stuffed with ginger, lemongrass, and other Southeast Asian herbs, of course. 

As I began to sear my meat on the grill, we talked about the recent bridge stampede in Cambodia and how many of the dead were young adults from the countryside.  And somehow, it led us to talking about death within our family.

"One of your cousins... he was riding his motorcycle, and we suspect that one of his friends was jealous of him for some reason and they stole his motorcycle. We couldn't find him for days and days, and then eventually the police discovered his body, dead.  He had been killed, tossed into a large bag, and then thrown into some random field in the countryside."

And then, one of my uncles.

"He was driving one of those carriages, you know, the carriages with the oxen in the front, and he just went missing.  He never came home that day. We searched and searched, but couldn't find him.  The police claimed they knew where he was, and we'd pay them money to take us to him, but when we'd arrive, he wasn't there.  And it'd happen again, and again.  Each time we'd follow the police's lead, but we never found your uncle.  No one knows where or why he disappeared."

While my aunt spoke, she hardly flinched.  She shared these stories simply, with little drama and little emotion. No waver in her voice, no tears in her eyes.  Maybe it's because unexplained deaths had become a normal, cruel reality for so many Khmer people, back in the day, and even now.

I paused occasionally, between mouthfuls, to ask questions, to grasp what I had learned.  Had I been alone, I would have preferred to mourn in silence.  But it was anything but silent -the drone of TV voices and the cries of my nieces and nephews interrupted our conversation.  We turned the heat off on the grill, began munching on dessert, and talked about sweeter things.    

~ ~ ~

A few days passed, and I had almost forgotten the Thanksgiving lunch.  I had almost forgotten my family's stories, as if my memory had been completely erased of them, as if my cousin and my uncle had never even existed.  (But I vaguely remembered, straining my brain to produce this post.)

And until the next family meal, I will wait.  

Eagerly.  

Not just for the inviting food, or the presence of my relatives.  But for the door of history to open, where family memories will become alive once again.

I Love You Paul
Sophea Pich

I have bread, he said.

A gift from a friend. 

Freshly baked. 

I have butter, I replied.

Let me add to your spoils.

(What a pair they will make.)

I’ll drop it off no trouble /Come by anytime/I’m here under the moonlight/I’m coming just behind.

He showed me his and I showed him mine. 

We tore, dipped, and repeated until our time

-Was up, up, up.

(Adulthood always interrupts.)

Still over half a loaf sat between us.

Take it, he said. Stop making trouble. 

No more carbs! I insisted.

(To whom, I don’t know.)

The next morning I woke. 

Threw his gift into the oven. 

Heated some leftover shaksuka.

Then told him how I really felt………

ស្លឹកបះ (sluk bah -- Ivy Leaf)
Sokunthea Oum

ស្លឹកបះ (sluk bah-- Ivy Leaf)

កូនស្រីជួយទៅរក (Khon srei chuol thaow rho-- Daughter go help find)

ស្លឹកបះ (Sluk bah-- Ivy leaves)

ខ្ចីខ្ចីមិនចាស់ (Kchaeh kchaeh mn chah-- Tender new leaves not old)

ម៉ាក់សុំបាន (Mak som bhan-- Mom (I have) asked for and received))

ខ្លាញ់ជ្រូកមួយដុំធំ (Klaegn Chrouk muy dom tom-- One large piece of pork fat)

ប៉ុនមេដៃ (Pun meh dai-- The size of a thumb)

ធ្វើសម្លកកូរ (Terh sawlaw kawkho-- Make mix stew)

ឱ្យកូនទាំងអស់ (Auw khon thong auh-- For all you children)

កុំខ្ពើម (Khom kperm-- Don’t be be disgusted)

សុីទៅសុីទៅ (See thauh see thauh-- Go ahead, Eat Eat)

ម៉ាក់ អត់ឃ្លានទេឥឡូវ (Mak aut klien theh ilauv-- Mom's (I am) not hungry now)

អត់មានអីទៀតទេ (Aut mien eh thiet theh-- I don’t have anything else)

អត់មានស្រូវ (Aut mien srauv-- Don’t have rice (unhusked grain))

អត់មានអង្ករ (Aut mien angkor-- Don’t have rice (husked))

អត់មានបាយ (Aut mien bye-- Don’t have rice (cooked))

មានតែដី (Mian thae dey-- Have only dirt)

អុំ សុគន្ធា (Oum, Sokunthea)

ថ្ងៃទី៦ ខែមីនា ឆ្នាំ២០១៩ (March 6, 2019)

Thank you

Dear TSH Submitters and Readers,

Thank you for sharing your stories and your time. It has been nearly two years since I became a volunteer with CALAA while researching music in the Khmer community of Lowell. Since then, my world has been greatly informed by the vitality of literary arts within the Cambodian and extended South East Asian diaspora. I am honored that you have welcomed me to read your work, assist in the production of TSH, and participate in your community. With the utmost gratitude to Executive Director Lena Sarunn and Deputy Director Joan Chun for making this publication happen, I look forward to our road ahead!

Sincerely,
Brad DeMatteo, TSH Volunteer

To our community, 

To write about food is to write about life - our lives are intrinsically tied to our sustenance and all of our stories can be beautifully expressed through what we eat, what we cook, and what we share. Food is essential to our growth and our functioning as human beings, but it has also been integral in building communities, in strengthening our bonds, and in shaping our identities and worldviews. 

Thank you for celebrating this issue’s theme of “Food and Identity” with your voices. It has been such an immeasurable privilege to share in your stories, poems, music, art, videos, and photos.

Thank you for sharing with us your appetites, your meals, your cravings, and your memories. I have loved every morsel of creativity and vulnerability, every crumb of imagination and bravery.

Finally, thank you for trusting us to showcase your work - what an honor it is to be able to recognize and uplift your artistry.  

I also must acknowledge CALAA’s Executive Director Lena and Deputy Director Joan. Thank

you ladies for your continued passion, commitment, and tireless work in helping to bring another TSH Zine to fruition. I’m hungry for our next issue already. 

Sincerely,
Laura, CALAA Board of Directors

This program is supported in part by a grant from the Lowell Cultural Council, a local agency which is supported by the Mass Cultural Council, a state agency. This issue is also supported in part by the Literary Arts Emergency Fund.

Supporters: Cambodian Mutual Assistance Association and Clemente Park Committee

Partner: Southeast Asia Globe