We'd only been hiking for an hour when we came upon a rushing waterfall and my mom declared, "This is a good lunch spot." We perched on fallen trees and flat rocks as we passed warm and weighty saran-wrapped packages from hand to hand. I looked around, gazing up at the tops of mighty Oregon trees then down at the small xôi disk in my hand. Biting through the soft exterior of sweet sticky rice to the chewy, salty slice of chả lụa, I tried to capture this moment — the clear (sans-Oklahoma-humidity) air, my smiling brothers and parents, and this small meal that has sustained my family through many trips, joys, and goodbyes.
Xôi, tightly wrapped in our backpacks, has traversed many hikes and national parks, the small disks stacked neatly next to water bottles and trail mixes. My family is not particularly athletic; we hike for the fresh air and a good meal with a view. That said, my outdoorsy Aunt once led us on a nine-mile hike up a mountain, though she complained that we slowed her down. With our snack breaks.
Much of my childhood consisted of these trips from Oklahoma to Oregon. I loved Oregon for its crisp air, dense forests running along the highways, and distant mountains peering over busy skylines. Most of all, I loved Oregon for my mom’s family. With my mom’s six siblings and parents, we never lacked relatives; I always had cousins to play with. In between trips from one uncle’s house to another’s, we would squeeze in drives to the Oregon coast. As kids, my cousins and I would run back and forth from the shoreline, the icy water splashing our ankles. After a long day of running and kite flying, we would return from the coast to a comforting meal at my grandmother’s house.
Of all these meals, I loved when my grandmother simply prepared xôi for us. Ba Ngoại would tuck rolled xôi into our chubby hands as we tottered around her house and the adults sat around the table recounting their days. When it came time for us to fly home, we would wake up to a neat stack of wrapped xôi on the countertop.
The worst part about leaving Oregon was watching my mom say goodbye to her parents and siblings. Tears welled in my eyes as my face began to mirror my mom’s. I’d recall how my mom has been far from hers for most of her adult life. Briskly, my grandmother would finish her goodbyes and remind us to eat our xôi for the plane ride home. Somberly, we’d chew our xôi in the bustling airport, reminiscing on our time away.
We would return home, greeted by heavy humidity and the vast Oklahoma plains. Life would return to its normal rhythm as memories of Oregon lingered in our minds. I would be reminded of my grandmother’s xôi on trips to the Asian supermarket where we’d grab flat, square packages of bright yellow, red, and green sweetened xôi from the crowded shelves.
Later, my mom's family flew from lush Oregon to tornado-season Oklahoma for my high school graduation. We somehow fit nine extra people into our four-bedroom house and I tried, as I do every year, to convince my cousins and relatives to move to Oklahoma to be closer to us. They could never move here, they always respond. The “mountains” here are barely hills and it’s just too hot. Ba Ngoại always questions why the dirt here is so red, the portion sizes so large.
While I drove my cousins (on trafficless highways, unlike Portland!) to my favorite OKC restaurants to convince them that we have great food (we do!), my grandmother stayed at home with my mom and aunt, puttering about our kitchen, quietly commenting on the large size of our bowls and pots.
She taught my mom to make xôi while we were out exploring the city. By the end of the day, we returned home to a small saucepan of xôi sitting on the stove, steam lazily rising from the top.
Just this past summer, my family gathered in Oregon for my grandparents’ 60th anniversary. We crammed Vietnamese foods upon the kitchen island: mini bánh mì sandwiches sitting next to soft bánh bao rounds and summer fruit. And, of course, large aluminum pans of different kinds of xôi to finish the meal off. I cried over the fragments I understood from emotional speeches given in Vietnamese by family members, some of whom I did not know but recognized our resemblance.
We gathered at the table and recounted our memories: short hikes in the forest, digging sand trenches at the beach, dinners at my grandparents’ home, piles of xôi brimming our plates.
From then on, my mom incorporated xoi into all our road trips, hikes, and outings. The yellow, starchy mung beans dotting the pale sticky rice alway remind me of my grandfather, a small man with a soft, hanging smile constantly on his face. Xôi đậu phụng, xôi wrapped around crushed peanuts, reminds me of my grandmother, her nimble fingers rolling the sticky rice into slim cylinders. Whenever I bite into a crispy, slightly burnt bit of xôi, I think of my mom, who always lets the rice crisp so she can nibble on the crunchy rice grains.
Whether in Oregon or Oklahoma or anywhere in between, I take a bite and I'm home.
Comments