My darling parents don’t really buy into the notion of public displays of affection or avowals of love/appreciation/gratitude.
Maybe it’s an Asian thing.
Instead, my parents demonstrate their love for my sister, brother and me by feeding us.
When my parents were growing up, food was scarce and they shared what was already paltry amounts of food with their other ten (in mum’s case, eight) siblings. If you were a favorite, you received a heftier portion of rice or a larger piece of fish. So, my parents always equated more food = more love.
I’ve been back home for about a week, and I’ve never seen our kitchen with so much food!
The day after I flew in from New York, mum and dad went to an Indian grocery store to buy a crate of mangoes. Not just any mangoes. Alphonso mangoes, my favorite. A few days ago dad went went to a Chinese bakery and picked up a box of dan tat, almond cookies and a huge container of cashews. More of my favorites. And this morning, sitting on the top shelf of the fridge was a pumpkin pie from the farmer’s market. The pumpkin pie was especially touching, because when we first immigrated to Canada, pumpkin pie was the only thing I ate in copious amounts. I was touched dad remembered.
So there I have it. Proof that my parents love me.
But a small part of me wishes they didn’t love me so much. Actually, I just wish they would stop feeding me.
Fat babies are cute. But fat adults? Not so much.