Mackerel, Mom, Me
(for Mr. Yoon's counseling class)
My mother and I each had a different viewpoint on virtually every aspect of life. She was the stereotypical tiger mom while I was the liberal fighter. So except for the days when we discussed ways to make my life better, she and I would not talk much. I was in my room, reading books that she did not want me to read because it would “distract me from my studies,” and she was in the living room, watching TV as she was a stay-at-home mom.
It was a particularly snowy day in 2012.
“We’ve got almost nothing to eat,” she said. She opened the refrigerator’s doors, rummaged through the food for a while, and pulled out a mackerel wrapped in plastic. I sighed. I hated mackerel.
So I sat at the dining table, working on my math homework while the exceptionally strong smell of mackerel spread, accompanied by thick smoke, through the kitchen and eventually the entire house. I wrinkled my nose in disgust, sighing occasionally, hoping to inform my mother of my hatred towards the fish. But dinner ended up to be mackerel anyway, and so she and I sat down with mackerel placed between us, accompanied by a bowl of black rice with beans.
My mother picked up her chopsticks. I sat there with my arms folded, refusing to budge. After a while, she looked up. “Well, aren’t you going to eat?”
“Mom, you know why.”
“I told you we have nothing else to eat. Either eat it, or starve.”
I felt a burn developing in my stomach, the one that often emerged as rage. Why didn’t she get that her daughter has a preference of food? Why was she so helplessly clueless?
And then, without a word, she picked up her car keys next to her, got up, and left. As the door closed, I felt an immediate wave of guilt. What have I done? Have I upset her?
About fifteen minutes later, the door opened with the familiar ruffling of my mother’s shopping bag. She walked into the kitchen, and saw me. She sat down in her chair, and looked at me. I stiffened, bracing myself for a lengthy lecture.
Instead, she pushed the plastic bag towards me. Confused, I looked inside the bag. I couldn’t believe my eyes. In the bag were bags of my favorite brand of chips, bars of chocolate that she would always refuse to buy because they “invited diabetes.” I was speechless.
She laughed, then hesitantly opened her mouth. “I know you don’t like mackerel. You don’t like beans either… I know. But it’s what’s best for you. I worry about your health, and I love you, you know that, right? But I know you really like these,” she said, gesturing towards the plastic bag. “I’m sorry.”
And with a heavy sigh, she left the kitchen and went into her room, closing the door behind her.
Everyday, I came back from school and everyday, without a single exception, my mother would cook meals for her kids. I never really thought about it. I took them for granted. Everyday was just a continuation of my series of complaints towards my mother, because I hated half of the food she cooked for me.
And I still may not agree with most of her values. But that day was the day that I truly became aware of my mother’s love and dedication towards me. Now, every time I eat food that my mother made, I am reminded of that one day, the one day that made a difference, the one day that I will always be grateful for.
My mother and I each had a different viewpoint on virtually every aspect of life. She was the stereotypical tiger mom while I was the liberal fighter. So except for the days when we discussed ways to make my life better, she and I would not talk much. I was in my room, reading books that she did not want me to read because it would “distract me from my studies,” and she was in the living room, watching TV as she was a stay-at-home mom.
It was a particularly snowy day in 2012.
“We’ve got almost nothing to eat,” she said. She opened the refrigerator’s doors, rummaged through the food for a while, and pulled out a mackerel wrapped in plastic. I sighed. I hated mackerel.
So I sat at the dining table, working on my math homework while the exceptionally strong smell of mackerel spread, accompanied by thick smoke, through the kitchen and eventually the entire house. I wrinkled my nose in disgust, sighing occasionally, hoping to inform my mother of my hatred towards the fish. But dinner ended up to be mackerel anyway, and so she and I sat down with mackerel placed between us, accompanied by a bowl of black rice with beans.
My mother picked up her chopsticks. I sat there with my arms folded, refusing to budge. After a while, she looked up. “Well, aren’t you going to eat?”
“Mom, you know why.”
“I told you we have nothing else to eat. Either eat it, or starve.”
I felt a burn developing in my stomach, the one that often emerged as rage. Why didn’t she get that her daughter has a preference of food? Why was she so helplessly clueless?
And then, without a word, she picked up her car keys next to her, got up, and left. As the door closed, I felt an immediate wave of guilt. What have I done? Have I upset her?
About fifteen minutes later, the door opened with the familiar ruffling of my mother’s shopping bag. She walked into the kitchen, and saw me. She sat down in her chair, and looked at me. I stiffened, bracing myself for a lengthy lecture.
Instead, she pushed the plastic bag towards me. Confused, I looked inside the bag. I couldn’t believe my eyes. In the bag were bags of my favorite brand of chips, bars of chocolate that she would always refuse to buy because they “invited diabetes.” I was speechless.
She laughed, then hesitantly opened her mouth. “I know you don’t like mackerel. You don’t like beans either… I know. But it’s what’s best for you. I worry about your health, and I love you, you know that, right? But I know you really like these,” she said, gesturing towards the plastic bag. “I’m sorry.”
And with a heavy sigh, she left the kitchen and went into her room, closing the door behind her.
Everyday, I came back from school and everyday, without a single exception, my mother would cook meals for her kids. I never really thought about it. I took them for granted. Everyday was just a continuation of my series of complaints towards my mother, because I hated half of the food she cooked for me.
And I still may not agree with most of her values. But that day was the day that I truly became aware of my mother’s love and dedication towards me. Now, every time I eat food that my mother made, I am reminded of that one day, the one day that made a difference, the one day that I will always be grateful for.
Is this an Any Tan Fish Cheeks adaptation? In any case, nice essay.
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