A small package of dried noodles with its silver flavoring packet was how my father showed his love for his family. He must have watched his daughters and wife struggle to understand the food at the table — in this new country, sitting with Americans he met only weeks prior. Every night after our sponsor family fell asleep, my father crouched on the floor with a small rice cooker and made soup from those ramen packages. He needed to fortify his four daughters and wife with something familiar, noodles in hot, salty broth — trying his best to compensate for the lack of flavor in American food. We ate quietly in the dark, borrowing a moment of comfort, hoping the other family wouldn’t wake and embarrass us. Although I felt they had known — the odor of artificial pork or chicken wafting through the house. It was just another secret shame I learned to start keeping. [150]
by Vuong Vu
Table Tales - 150 word stories 