Comfort cooking

In the months before my grandmother's death, my mother cooked.

She bought pork and lamb at the store, glad to take advantage of grocery specials. She marinated beef to roast in a hot oven. She trimmed Chinese greens. She chopped and braised, steamed and stir-fried. She spent time in her kitchen with the television on but often ignored.

My mother cooked not for my grandmother, who by then hardly ate, cancer stealing the best of her appetite. She cooked not for my father. He would be fine with simple soups and porridges. She cooked not for my sisters, brothers or me. Though we dropped by on weekends, we could only eat so much. Imagine the leftovers. She cooked, I believe, for herself.

At the counter or the sink, my mother stayed busy. She prepped chicken perhaps or removed scales from a fish. She gave herself these things to do. Meanwhile, her mind wandered.

She thought about the food she did not have growing up in China and the access she enjoyed when she arrived in California. She recalled years of scrimping to send money back to family across the Pacific and the relief she finally felt when her mother arrived in the United States as well. She cooked and cried.


We talk of comfort food: a scoop of ice cream, for example, or a slice of cake, a barbecued pork bun or an egg custard tart.

Jonathan Reynolds wonders whether the term is redundant. "All food is comforting," he says in the memoir "Wrestling with Gravy: A Life, With Food," "or we'd be eating nothing but hot dogs at Shea and warm tar (indistinguishable in a Times blind-testing), with possibly a few vitamins thrown in.

"Unless you're... undergoing a fraternity initiation or briefly lapse into Joan Crawford territory with one of your sons, there is no such thing as 'punitive food'."

I suspect there is the idea of comfort cooking as well, the notion that kitchen work can help to reassure us, that time in front of a stove can keep us centered. My mother cooked, it seems, for the same reason others might ride a bike or read a book. She needed the diversion.


The moment my mother spied my grandmother in hospice care, the day after my uncle had admitted the woman, she ran to hold her. It was something I had seldom seen my mother do: openly embrace anybody. It felt like a clip from a Chinese-language soap opera.

Outward displays of affection had been rare in our house. Hugs and kisses were things other people traded. My mother demonstrated her love through food instead.

She treated scrapes my siblings and I got playing in the back yard with a little Bactine and a lot of candy. She marked our achievements with dumplings and broth. She greeted our returns from college with dishes we favored: braised eggplant, tofu and beef, vermicelli with egg and barbecued pork. She wasn't about big gestures but small everyday concerns. I realize this now.

"When am I going to get better?" my grandmother asked, her voice a soft but steady whisper. "I don't know when I am going to get better. Maybe this time I won't."

A friend told me once her heart grew three sizes the day her daughter was born; my heart broke into a hundred pieces that afternoon at the foot of my grandmother's bed.

My mother insisted that if my grandmother simply ate more, her health could improve. "If you don't have the nutrients," she reasoned, "how would you ever get well?"

I knew enough Cantonese to understand this exchange. From talks earlier with doctors and relatives, I also knew the truth: That no matter what or how much my grandmother did or did not eat, she wouldn't get better. The disease had taken a toll, wreaking havoc on her pancreas, stripping her body of the energy it required.

My mother punctuated her visits to the hospice with trips to Safeway or Trader Joe's nearby or to Chinatown, recognizing the severity of the situation, I'm sure, but needing still to collect ingredients for her own meals. In this way, she continued to live as my grandmother was about to die.

After all, my mother needed to pay attention to herself, too, did she not? She needed to look to the future and occasions she would inevitably get to spend with the rest of her family. Food - thinking about it, shopping for it, preparing it - provided a way for her to exert control over something when so much around her had been beyond her control. It was the happiness she allowed herself. In this backyard scrape, it was her candy.

The short market trips were also a way, I suppose, for her to fool death personally, to not let it follow her straight home from the hospice. She wanted to open and close car doors, enter and exit other buildings, walk up and down wide aisles, to ditch death randomly. She was superstitious like that.


In the months since my grandmother's death, my mother continues to cook. She shops for exceptional deals and brainstorms menu ideas. Her tears, however, no longer flavor the food.

She tells me about a visit with a friend to their neighborhood Lucky for 99-cent eggs. She wanted to limit herself to a couple of cartons. Her friend, however, dismissed the restraint.

"The people in the store know us," the woman said in Cantonese. "They see us all the time anyway. They know we're greedy. It doesn't matter how much we buy or don't buy." They shrugged, gathered four or five cartons each and headed to the register.

With joy I have not seen in a while, my mother tells me of the day she spent with a nephew from New Jersey. During a last-minute business trip to California, he made it a point to invite her out to eat.

In San Francisco, they came across a Chinese buffet. Though inexpensive, the food they spotted on people's plates seemed unappealing.

He placed his hand on my mother's back and guided her away from the entrance of the restaurant. "The two of us," her nephew said, gently and genuinely, "let's go eat something better. You and I, we deserve something better." She agreed.

My mother tells me these stories, peppered with humor, irony and insight, one night over dinner. I listen and laugh.

(A version of this essay appears on the website for The Atlantic.)

Why ask why?

Pie, pie, three-berry pie.

Though the crust is store-bought, the lattice is not. The filling, consisting of strawberries, blueberries and raspberries, is totally summer.

Stars and stripes

Because it is red, white and blue.

One each

In a box of 15 macarons from La Boulange in San Francisco, we are down to the final four. One for each of us. We check out a jazz festival on Fillmore Street and uncover a French bakery on Pine Street instead. The cookies have all been excellent. We pass them around the table and think of getting more.

Berry love

The Guardian does a combination history, how-to pick, eat and store piece on strawberries. It is a light but informative read.

It seems to me the British strawberry season coincides nicely with the U.S., another reason I love England.

Much too much

OK now this has got to stop.

I survey the groceries and realize there is simply too much food in the refrigerator. There are tons of fruits and vegetables. It's crazy.

After the Mexico-Argentina game Sunday afternoon, I went to the Berkeley Bowl, where I got raspberries, blackberries and blueberries on the cheap. I don't want to keep them too long, though, so I make a crisp.

I got a bag of eggplants for 99 cents and think of a tomato-less pasta sauce with a recipe I saw on Salon. Or perhaps I should roast them for baba ghanoush.

I got six ears of shucked yellow corn for 99 cents. I got a bag of squash - zucchini and two varieties whose names I do not know - for 99 cents. I have not figured out entirely what to do with them but have a couple of days still, I think.

I got rhubarb, which I happened to see and, of course, could not resist. I love it and will need to cook that down for schloop (a word I made up). I can have it with vanilla yogurt and granola for breakfast.

I got kale just because. In hindsight, perhaps I should have put back the kale. I still have carrots, onions and lettuce leaves, too. I even wound up freezing a mess of sliced red bell peppers the other week because I could not use those immediately.

It is ridiculous, right? You'd think I was cooking and shopping to feed a football team. And this is all after the full flat of strawberries the other weekend from the farmers' market.

Oh, and shoot, running errands in Chinatown with my mother this morning, I got pluots, too. I know, I know. But they are in season, and I saw them.

Milkshake

"My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard and they're like it's better than yours. Damn right it's better than yours. I could teach you but I'd have to charge."

The lyrics are taken from "Milkshake" by Kelis. The sign hangs at Trueburger on Grand Avenue in Oakland, where they serve hamburgers, french fries and, yes, milkshakes. It proves a nifty play on words.

Summer cake

Nigel Slater can not resist cake. I, apparently, can not resist Nigel Slater. The British author champions summer cakes in The Observer. I am smitten:

"Cake is my downfall. I can refuse a glass of wine, push away an opened box of handmade chocolates, spurn a toffee from the tin and turn my nose up at a HobNob, but I can never, ever resist a slice of cake.

"The feel of the soft, open texture of the sponge between my finger and thumb, the warm scent of vanilla, orange, lemon and almond. A slice of cake is both pleasure and vice and I sometimes look away as I walk past a particularly tempting shop window..."

(Photo credit goes to Jonathan Lovekin for The Observer.)

Food for my father

When we were growing up, my mother spent afternoons in the kitchen making traditional Chinese dumplings and pastries. Determined not to let us forget who we were, she poached chicken and steamed fish. She simmered pots of soup. She stuck with the familiar.

But my father liked to experiment. Having been in California long enough to taste other foods, he wanted to introduce us to all sorts of things. He asked my mother to serve asparagus the way many Americans did - with hollandaise sauce. He showed her how to bake russet potatoes in the oven. He fed us sour cream.

He allowed my sibling and me departures from Chinese food, rescuing us from what would become our mother's predictability. He injected new flavors into our weekly menus, bringing home burgers from a restaurant near his store in San Francisco, patties so thick they dripped with each bite, and deep-dish pizzas. He had these with glasses of beer, a practice I have long since adopted.

He took us to the grocery store. My mother shopped mostly in Chinatown. But my father preferred the American supermarkets. We went with him on Saturdays for staples such as milk and bread.

My sisters, brothers and I wandered the aisles and filled the cart with cookies while our father stayed in the meat department comparing packages of beef. We never asked permission for the items we chose. He never denied us the foods we liked.

So it is disheartening to learn now that my father, as he gets older, sometimes fails to eat, that he sleeps late and skips meals, that he's uninterested in the things my mother cooks. That his weight has begun to fall.


Nutritionists and psychologists talk often about the connections between age and health, mood and appetite. In articles and on Web sites, they write about the benefits of a balanced diet, offering suggestions for seniors to stay well.

Eat more whole grains, they say. Eat more fruits and vegetables, beans and nuts. Eat less fat, cholesterol and sodium. They tell me nothing new.

They look at the possible effects of treatment and medication on appetite. One influences the other, they say. But my father isn't on treatment. He isn't on heavy medication. He takes a pill a day and a couple of calcium supplements.

They look also at environment. Seniors who live alone sometimes find it discouraging to eat alone. They don't like to sit by themselves. But my father does not live alone. My mother is next to him, cooking morning, noon and night. How could he not be hungry?


Watching my father in the kitchen, I recall a time years ago when he ate heartily, when sumptuous Saturday evening meals, for example, were rewards for weeks of hard work, when holidays, both Chinese and American, were occasions for serious family feasts.

My mother would fill the table with my father's favorites: cellophane noodles, shrimp and vegetable stir-fry, sweet and sour pork, as well as crab or lobster when they were available. She'd top the menu with refreshing slices of oranges or sweet, ripened mangoes.

Eager to watch television, my siblings and I tried to tear through the food. But our father disapproved. Slow down, he'd say. Enjoy your meal.

He'd pick up a mouthful of noodles with his chopsticks, touch it to his lips and taste. The seasonings were perfect. He'd lick the sauce off a piece of pork or wok-fried crab, savoring its juices.

Half an hour later, my father would wipe his lips, push his chair from the edge of the table and gently pat his stomach. Good, he'd say, smiling discreetly. I'm full.

I wonder if that might happen again, if my father would find such peace and satisfaction in the things he ate.


One afternoon, aiming to give him a respite from Chinese food, the way he had done for my sisters, brothers and me when we were children, I set out to make a pot of chili for my father.

I select a recipe from my eclectic collection and cook ground turkey instead of ground beef. I want the dish to be heart healthy. I include tons of vegetables: diced bell peppers, portobello mushrooms, corn, zucchini and tomatoes. I want it to be nutritious. I throw in chili powder and red pepper flakes. I want it to have a significant kick.

At my parents' house that night, I serve the chili with steamed white rice, something my mother cannot refuse. I note the ingredients and encourage them to help themselves.

My mother thanks me for cooking, saving her time and energy. It is not a big deal, I reply, before turning to my father, who scoops a small portion.

I want him to like the food. I want him to have seconds. Thirds even. I do. He doesn't. In the end, I impress only myself.


Perhaps the nutritionists and psychologists were right. Maybe my father - like others his age - isn't thinking much about eating. At 80, he has different concerns. But does his decreasing appetite for food in particular mirror a decreasing appetite for life in general?

Does he believe, 15 years into retirement, that he has tasted all there is? It would be a shame. I want to convince my father there are tons of foods he has not tried.

So I will continue to encourage my father to eat today and tomorrow. He is the one who introduced us years ago to American favorites, who did not deny us the snacks we craved, who pushed his chair from the edge of the table after an especially satisfying meal.

I will help my mother keep their kitchen stocked with all sorts of good food - the chicken and fresh fish she likes, the cereals and bananas he likes - and provide them occasional departures from the usual.

And on mornings when my mother visits friends in the neighborhood, I will stop by the house to spend time with my father.

I will boil eggs for his breakfast. Twelve minutes, no more, no less, the way I learned to in college. They will come out perfect. He can have them with a bowl of oatmeal and a cup of coffee.

It might not be the biggest or most extravagant meal in the world. It might not be fancy or expensive. But it will be a decent start.


(A version of this essay appeared originally in The Oakland Tribune.)

Coffee cake

"It was coffee cake; I hope that statement implies no sense of disappointment. Eaten warm from the oven, moist and crumbly, a nice coffee cake is pretty hard to fault. Coffee cake! I had made a coffee cake! Mysteriously, I thought, it contained no coffee.

"The velvet crumb business turned out to revolve around an impasto of butter, brown sugar, chopped nuts, flaked coconut, and a little milk that you spread over the cake after it came out of the oven. Then you stuck it back in the oven for a minute or two. Something wonderful happened to those five ingredients when you blended them and briefly subjected them to intense heat. The result was both smooth and grainy, crisp and chewy.

"Cooking, it turned out, was a magical act, a feat of transformation, a way of turning the homely and the familiar into something fine, like carving a pumpkin into a lantern."

Michael Chabon, writing of an early baking foray in "Manhood for Amateurs: The Pleasures and Regrets of a Husband, Father, and Son."

Reason for cake

It is a sunset ceremony linking a girl I no longer know well to a boy I have never met. It is their wedding, their celebration, another reason for cake. As if cake needed a reason.

Baskets of berries

A visit to the farmers' market yields an armload of strawberries, three baskets full. They should keep me happy for the week. I eat them sliced with yogurt and granola for breakfast. I snack on them during the day.

My sister gets baskets of berries at the supermarket, too. As does my brother. The packages are BOGO, they say. Each wanted to surprise the other with an extra. They are twins. We go from none in the house to much too much.

With the surplus, I make strawberry bread using a recipe from Martha Stewart's Everyday Food magazine. It reminds me of the pastries my friends and I had in the college cafeteria, goodness that got us through groggy mornings in Providence. It takes me back.

Strawberry Bread
adapted from Martha Stewart's Everyday Food magazine

5 Tbsp. plus 1 tsp. unsalted butter, room temperature, plus more for pan
1 pint strawberries, rinse, hulled, quartered and mashed with a fork
1 3/4 cups all-purpose flour
1 tsp. baking soda
1/2 tsp. ground cinnamon
1/4 tsp. baking powder
1/4 tsp. salt
1 cup sugar
2 large eggs

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Butter an 8-inch by 4-inch loaf pan.

In a small saucepan, bring strawberries to a boil over medium heat. Cook, stirring, 1 minute. Set aside.

Whisk together flour, baking soda, ground cinnamon, baking powder and salt in a medium bowl. Set aside.

With an electric mixer, cream the butter, sugar and eggs until light and fluffy. Add the flour mixture alternately with 1/3 cup of water, beginning and ending with flour. Fold in the reserved strawberries.

Scrape batter into the prepared pan, smoothing the top. Bake until a toothpick inserted in the center of the bread comes out clean, about 45 to 50 minutes. Cool 10 minutes in the pan. Run a knife around the edges; invert the loaf onto a rack. Cool completely. Makes 8 servings.

Home turf

"The seeds, these seeds that I had so carefully selected, were tangible proof of man's culture, of my culture, a continuation of a line. Even in this ghetto squat lot, I was cultivating human history. Watermelons from Africa. Squash from the Americas. Potatoes with a history in Peru. Radishes native to Asia but domesticated in Egypt. All now growing here in Oakland.

"Standing near the fence, I realized that not only did I make the garden; it made me. I ate out of this place every day. I had become this garden - its air, water, soil. If I abandoned the lot, I would abandon myself. When Jack Chan told me no building - no permanent structures - only garden, did he realize that by building the soil, perhaps I was making something more permanent than he could have ever imagined?"

Novella Carpenter, in "Farm City: The Education of an Urban Farmer."

In the Sunday paper

Pegged in part to the publication of her cookbook "In the Green Kitchen: Techniques to Learn by Heart," the San Francisco Chronicle's piece on Alice Waters sums up much of her food philosophy.

"For nearly 40 years, 'St. Alice,' as she's been called for her unrepentant views, has touted the importance of eating local, organically grown food; emphasized the necessity of being good stewards of the land; and tirelessly advocated and funded nutritional meal programs in public schools..."

Getting sauced

Oliver Thring writes in the Guardian of HP Sauce, comparing it to both A1 Steak Sauce and ketchup. Like me, he favors one but not the others.

"It's almost shocking how delicious HP is. From its lowbrow reputation and unappetising hue bursts a remarkable aroma: complex, fuggy and fruity, like swimming through compost and Jif. It tastes better than it smells, too, a sweet-sour, subjugating blend."

Sating a thirst

Not until I met a guy in London who waxed nostalgic about Anchor Steam have I given significant thought to the iconic San Francisco brand, sold by Fritz Maytag to entrepreneurs Keith Greggor and Tony Foglio.

Only now have I developed a thirst for the beer.

The second pancake

A brother makes me pancakes. Without having to ask, he takes out a mixing bowl in the morning and heats a skillet on the stove. He whips up batter. I watch from a seat at the kitchen counter.

The first pancake does not come out right. No big shakes. I tell him it's like Katie Holmes' character in "Pieces of April." Something about how she is the first pancake, the first child in the family, the one who never turns out totally right. He looks at me funny.

My brother tries again.

And the other pancakes turn out fine. They are light and fluffy, served with slices of banana and strawberries, and scoops of vanilla ice cream. He spreads separate layers of Nutella and chunky peanut butter in between as well.

They are over the top and delicious. We take turns at the plate while drinking orange juice and Champagne. Is it any wonder he remains my all-time favorite sibling?

Waste not

"There are legal, fiscal and logistical measures that can be taken to reduce food waste... If we felt, as intensely as the desert-dwelling Uighurs do, that food is a finite, invaluable resource to be cherished, our situation would be very different.

"To experience just how different things could be, go to any landfill site in Britain, the US or countless other countries, and examine its contents. Among the mass of general detritus is an array of uneaten food... Some of it (has) evidently come from restaurants and individual households.

"But there are also entire crates of food that have clearly never seen the inside of a shopping bag: eggs, oranges, cauliflowers in sprawling piles like a scattered bag of children's multi-coloured marbles. The whole world is represented here... bananas from the West Indies, grapes from South Africa, rice from India or America. All of it has come from the earth, and to the earth it has been unceremoniously returned, now blended with plastic, paper and clapped-out furniture..."

Tristram Stuart writing in "Waste: Uncovering the Global Food Scandal."

Going green

"Ulf's farm was a study in green. There was the lime green of Bibb lettuce and the arctic green of collards and the blackish green of Tuscan kale and the bronze green of mustards and the variegated green of cilantro, and many other shades of green, all set out in long, straight rows.

"The glowing pointillist dots of chiles and tomatoes and oranges were missing, for Ulf did not grow these things. He was a leaf man. He just grew greens."

Mike Madison, writing of a neighbor's farm in "Blithe Tomato."

Flannel cakes

"Funniest joke in the world:

'Last night I dreamed I was eating flannel cakes. When I woke up the blanket was gone!' "

Kurt Vonnegut, writing in "A Man Without a Country."