While my mother is visiting relatives in California, I tried calling her cell phone, but she didn’t answer. The second attempt was successful by calling my grandmother’s house directly. It was my aunt who picked up the phone. She’s made for hilarious conversations. She brought dinner from a Chinese restaurant, in which my mother claimed she wasn’t going to eat. I know that type of response, because I’m her daughter. We both don’t crave Chinese take-out meals. However, eventual hunger wins as we scoop whatever fried, high-fructose corn derivative and artificial flavoring concoction that is only served outside of Asia, onto our plates.
Mom asked what I was making for dinner, in which I told her coleslaw and seared scallops. Like most mothers who know their daughters, curiously she questioned my dislike for coleslaw. It’s true, I don’t like it. Neither does the boyfriend. When I served it for dinner, he hesitated for a millimeter of a second. That quick moment of hesitation is a rare occurrence, because instant memories of eating coleslaw from a popular fast-food, fried chicken business serving their gooey, bland version flashed in his head. My coleslaw memory was of my father’s traditional mayonnaise-based version. It’s tasty, but I didn’t crave it. Our memories of coleslaw are of bad taste. Read more
