Andrea MacMichael

Food and Travel Seminar

10/11/16

Yes, You Can Use Chopsticks

My family and I hardly ever went out to eat, but when we did, I always got my pasta. Pasta marinara from Flying Fish. If we were lucky, there would be an open table upstairs, where we could eat looking over the tiny balcony and my twin brother Matt and I could play with the blue and green painted metal fish figurines that decorated the ledge. My mouth would water when my shiny white bowl of mini bow tie noodles arrived, topped with bright, clumpy red sauce and dotted with green specks of cilantro and a small pile of finely shredded parmesan. Or ‘Oodles of Noodles’ from Sweet Lorraine’s. The long fettuccini noodles would come smothered in salty, golden butter, topped with sweet, tender baby carrots. The waitress would shred the parmesan cheese right over my bowl, and I could inhale the strong, slightly sour scent of what I liked to call “sprinkle cheese” at home. My parents prodded me, saying I would like the fish and chips at Flying Fish, saying I should try something else when we went out to eat. I stuck to my noodles.           

I’ll admit that I did not like ordering. In my head I had it all planned out. I never had to worry about holding up a conversation with the waitress or asking any questions if I ordered the same thing every time. All I had to do was say “the pasta marinara, please” or, “the oodles of noodles, please” and I was in business. I liked feeling 100% prepared.

I felt unprepared that fall Saturday evening in third or fourth grade when my parents spontaneously took my brother and me to a sushi restaurant. Folding my arms against my chest, I stood, hovering quietly behind my family in the dark, low lighting of the entrance. The constant movement of black-aproned waiters and waitresses in the orange glow of the restaurant caught my attention. It seemed crowded. Waiters kept arriving at tables with delicate small plates. It looked so fancy compared to our usual “family” restaurant spots.

“Four, please”, I heard my dad tell the hostess, and we were on our way to a booth. I plopped onto the brown leather cushion and scooched against the wall, my mom sliding in beside me. My dad and my brother took over the other half of the table. The air conditioning was blasting. I pulled the sleeves of my sweatshirt over my hands and tucked them comfortably underneath my butt to warm up. I was glad my mom told me to bring my sweatshirt. It had been in the low 70s all day, pretty warm for fall, but that was Michigan.

“Wait. Honey, maybe you should switch with Matt,” my Mom suggested. My Dad laughed, giving my brother a few elbows before switching to the inside of the booth.

 “I know, I’ve got that lefty wing that could get in the way,” he replied. We all giggled.

My Dad pointed out to the waitress--typical Dad-- that it was “the kiddies” first time eating at a sushi restaurant and that she should assure us that we would love the food. Matt and I smiled at her, inside wishing our dad would just let it go. I didn’t like having all the attention on me. My face would always turn red and I wouldn’t know what to say.

I dreaded the times like this. I dreaded times when it was my turn to say my name at soccer tryouts, and I hated when it was my turn to hit at softball practice. The car rides to the fields consisted of me bursting into tears in the backseat, sobbing, “don’t make me go, don’t make me go,” my mom angrily handing me a Tupperware container of leftover food from the night before and a water bottle so I wouldn’t get hungry. You’ll be fine, you’ll be fine, you’ll be fine. I didn’t believe it. Who do I warm up with? Will I know anyone? Two uncomfortable hours later I would rush back to my mom in the car and then relax on the couch at home, the familiar, smoky smell of juicy steak on the grill and the cheering of sports on TV filling my ears.

“How did it go, Shoo Shoo?” my dad would ask, using my nickname. Quickly I would say “fine,” and get up to do what I wished I had been doing while I was gone: helping with dinner. Dinnertime was my favorite time of day because we were all together.

At the sushi restaurant we were presented with heaping plates of thick noodles smothered in a brown sauce with diced chicken and broccoli, and one brown, crispy egg roll each. My parents shared a pretty rectangular platter decorated with colorful slivers of fish resting on rice and small seaweed rolls. I searched around anxiously for a fork, finally deciding to copy my parents as they unwrapped long wood chopsticks from a paper covering. The chopsticks slipped between my fingers clumsily. I tried to pinch them together and pick up a noodle, but the slimy noodles kept slipping through and falling back onto my plate. I spent a few minutes fishing around with my noodles, managing to get one or two into my mouth.

I stared at my brother, in his grey University of Michigan sweatshirt, until he finally peeled his eyes from the football game on TV. He felt the same way. I longed for a nice relaxing dinner at Flying Fish, or some steak and potatoes at home, where my mom and I could chop fresh veggies for a side salad and listen to the game my brother put on the TV.

“Here, Shoo Shoo,” my dad cooed, giving me two asparagus rolls and his pristine dish full of dark soy sauce. I slowly placed my chopsticks on either side of the mysterious seaweed roll and brought it up to my mouth. But it slipped as I applied pressure and quickly I hunched forward, mouth wide and tongue extended in an attempt to catch the falling roll, but it splashed into the basin of soy sauce. I felt my face getting hot. I wanted a fork. I felt so awkward and unsure of how to eat my food. I looked over at my brother across the table, only to see that he was using his fingers when no one was looking, and only using his chopsticks for eating the chunks of chicken. Beside me, my mom had her chopsticks resting comfortably between her fingers, and slowly dunked pieces of sushi into soy sauce and raised them expertly into her mouth without so much as a stray drip or fumble. Tired of struggling and feeling frustrated, I stabbed one chopstick into the center of the soggy asparagus roll that had partially unraveled with the fall, and practically threw it into my mouth. My dad was calmly trying to motion to me so I could mimic how he held the chopsticks, but I had given up all interest in trying to eat correctly. Stomach growling, I shoveled my food into my mouth and slowly started to feel better.

Not long after we left the sushi restaurant. “That was so good, wasn’t it?” my dad said.

“Did you like it?” my mom asked. Feeling the warm breeze rush past me as we stepped back outside, I replied, “It was fine.” My interest in the food was masked slightly by my reluctance to admit I actually kind of liked the new food. At the end of the day, I was a kid that feared the “how about this” or the “you will like this” and the “let’s try this.” I hated being constantly pushed by my parents and then realizing that I agreed with them afterwards. I was a quiet kid with too many worries, angry that my parents pushed me out of my comfort zone and out of my routines.

“See, we knew you would like it,” my parents said. Even after the encounter with chopsticks and nights I was forced to play sports with girls I had never met, I continued to try new things. Maybe now, when I step out onto my college softball field for a game, I still feel a few butterflies. When I have to speak up in class or introduce myself, my face still turns red, but I’ve been taught that I can get through anything, and that I can’t be experienced with everything before doing it. At least, I’ve always managed to make it through things I’ve been forced to do. I guess some of the best things in my life have come from that. That’s how I’ve come to love sushi and Thai food, and even how I got to play softball at the college level. I still think of comfort as home, family meals, and even pasta marinara. I still hate the prodding. My parents call me and say, “make sure to meet with your professors” or, “set up a meeting with your advisor,” and I sigh. I have to listen, because somehow they were, and are, always right.