I think pho and I need to go on a break. Not a breakup. A break.
Pho is a delicacy. The hours of preparation and waiting for the broth to reach peak flavor was always worth it for all the deliciousness that pho is known for. We ate pho on occasion. Sometimes it was for a special event or a large family gathering. As a kid, whenever we had pho, it was up to me to choose the garnishes and condiments on my own. No one taught me how to dress my pho, so I resorted to observing how the older women across the table did it. I didn't know what to do. I started with a little bit of everything and experimented with different amounts and combinations. Sometimes I tried to be brave and add more chili to show that I could handle the spiciness. That was fun and sometimes a struggle. When it came to eating, we ate in two stages. The first stage is quick as we somehow always dipped our spoon into someone else's bowl to sample how they customized their soup and make comments about each other's personal pho. In the second stage of our pho-eating ritual, we eat our own bowl of pho undisturbed except for the occasional sounds of enjoyment and satisfaction to the bowl of goodness in front of us. We probably weren't even aware that we did this. But growing up, with every bowl of pho, I wrestled with my insecurities about it. Do I even like pho that much? Then one day, something happened like a rite of passage. I was finally satisfied with my pho. After so many bowls, I created the one that I liked. Sour and salty, followed by a little bit of spicy and sweet. To me, this was a sign of growing up. I knew what I wanted and how to achieve it. Success!
Coming of age with pho was an experience. It taught me to savor the moment, but there was so much more for me to learn.
My experience with pho crescendoed in college. Pho's popularity skyrocketed everywhere. It was becoming the next trendy food. People told me about how much they enjoy pho. It was exciting that others loved what I loved, but I was proud with hesitation. In the midst of an identity crisis, I was in search of who I was as a Hmong American. Pho isn't Hmong food, so it didn't feel like my own to share with others. What is Hmong food anyway? (This question is for another day!)
Focusing on my experiences and identity as a Hmong American woman, my relationship with pho changed. Eating pho was different; a new experience. I learned about the origin of pho in Vietnam and wondered how it intersected with my people's history. How did we come to enjoy this dish? The Hmong identity and narrative are just as mysterious as the origins of pho. As strangers in every land, we are resourceful without compromising who we are. We assimilated while resisting losing ourselves. So as we continue to recreate ourselves while holding onto our authentic selves, who are we? I imagine that is how pho found a place in our kitchens. We learned to enjoy pho in our own way. In other words, pho done in the Hmong way is Hmong food. When I eat pho, it is a reminder of our complex identity. Pho is a gift to my community.
But pho is beginning to feel like fast food. It's available in many places, and I tend to eat it alone now. Maybe that is a new normal now, but for me, that's not my relationship with pho. I want it to be an experience I can savor. That is why I need a break from pho, so I don't lose the value and meaning behind eating pho. Then, my love will grow.
I think pho and I need to go on a break. Not a breakup. A break.
Pho is a delicacy. The hours of preparation and waiting for the broth to reach peak flavor was always worth it for all the deliciousness that pho is known for. We ate pho on occasion. Sometimes it was for a special event or a large family gathering. As a kid, whenever we had pho, it was up to me to choose the garnishes and condiments on my own. No one taught me how to dress my pho, so I resorted to observing how the older women across the table did it. I didn't know what to do. I started with a little bit of everything and experimented with different amounts and combinations. Sometimes I tried to be brave and add more chili to show that I could handle the spiciness. That was fun and sometimes a struggle. When it came to eating, we ate in two stages. The first stage is quick as we somehow always dipped our spoon into someone else's bowl to sample how they customized their soup and make comments about each other's personal pho. In the second stage of our pho-eating ritual, we eat our own bowl of pho undisturbed except for the occasional sounds of enjoyment and satisfaction to the bowl of goodness in front of us. We probably weren't even aware that we did this. But growing up, with every bowl of pho, I wrestled with my insecurities about it. Do I even like pho that much? Then one day, something happened like a rite of passage. I was finally satisfied with my pho. After so many bowls, I created the one that I liked. Sour and salty, followed by a little bit of spicy and sweet. To me, this was a sign of growing up. I knew what I wanted and how to achieve it. Success!
Coming of age with pho was an experience. It taught me to savor the moment, but there was so much more for me to learn.
My experience with pho crescendoed in college. Pho's popularity skyrocketed everywhere. It was becoming the next trendy food. People told me about how much they enjoy pho. It was exciting that others loved what I loved, but I was proud with hesitation. In the midst of an identity crisis, I was in search of who I was as a Hmong American. Pho isn't Hmong food, so it didn't feel like my own to share with others. What is Hmong food anyway? (This question is for another day!)
Focusing on my experiences and identity as a Hmong American woman, my relationship with pho changed. Eating pho was different; a new experience. I learned about the origin of pho in Vietnam and wondered how it intersected with my people's history. How did we come to enjoy this dish? The Hmong identity and narrative are just as mysterious as the origins of pho. As strangers in every land, we are resourceful without compromising who we are. We assimilated while resisting losing ourselves. So as we continue to recreate ourselves while holding onto our authentic selves, who are we? I imagine that is how pho found a place in our kitchens. We learned to enjoy pho in our own way. In other words, pho done in the Hmong way is Hmong food. When I eat pho, it is a reminder of our complex identity. Pho is a gift to my community.
But pho is beginning to feel like fast food. It's available in many places, and I tend to eat it alone now. Maybe that is a new normal now, but for me, that's not my relationship with pho. I want it to be an experience I can savor. That is why I need a break from pho, so I don't lose the value and meaning behind eating pho. Then, my love will grow.
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