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Chinese
Chicken
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“This
stir-fry is delicious!” said the Abbot. “Where did
you learn to cook like this, from your mother?”
Sativa
laughed so hard she spilled her wine. “My mother was
the worst cook in the world. She did things like heat spaghetti
out of a can. She made us toasted cheese sandwiches on burnt
white bread.”
“Didn’t
she know any Korean cooking?”
“No,
she spurned her heritage. Everything Korean was bad. Everything
American was good.”
“How
did your father like her cooking?”
“He
loved it. He would say to us girls, ‘Isn't your mother
the greatest cook,’ and my sister and I would roll our
eyes.”
“He
was in the military, wasn’t he?”
“Before
he met my mom he got out. He worked in Riverside. That’s
where they met. He came into the store one day and it was
love at first sight. That’s what they always said.”
The
Abbot savored the spicy taste of marinated chicken. “Love
is blind.”
Sativa
nodded in agreement.
“So
what did her parents think about her marrying a black man?
Was it a big scandal?”
“No,
my father didn’t look black. He was a mix of races. What
they objected to was their daughter marrying someone from the
working class. They didn’t think he was good enough for
their little princess. Even though my father treated her like
a queen, they looked down on him because he never finished high
school and my mom had gone to college.”
“What
college did she go to?” “Oh, some stupid Bible college.”
“A
Bible college? You mean like no dancing, no holding hands
in public?”
“Yes,
she made life a living hell for my sister and me. That's why
I quit high school in my senior year and ran away.”
“Really?
Where’d you go?”
“I
hitch-hiked to San Francisco and got a job waiting tables
in Chinatown. I lived in a rented room—until I got involved
with Mr, Tu. He was the chef in the restaurant. Most of what
I know about cooking I learned from him. We lived together
for two years. He taught me Tai Chi and the I Ching.
He was good to me. He kept asking me to marry him and I wouldn't
do it.”
The
Abbot finished his wine and refilled his glass.
“Why
not?”
“I was too young to get married. He had traveled the
world and I hadn't been anywhere, outside of California. But
there were other problems.” Sativa paused and sipped
her wine reflectively.
“Like
what?”
“Like
he didn't want me getting high. He was rigid that way. ‘No
pollution,’ he would say, and I had to sneak around if
I wanted to have a toke.”
“That's
a drag. How did it end?”
“He
came home one day and caught me smoking a joint and threw
me out.”
“What!
You mean like in the movies, where stuff goes flying out the
window?”
“Oh,
it was quite the sidewalk scene. I was laughing and he was
shouting at me in Chinese. People on the street stopped to
watch, you know, waiting for things to escalate. But we both
knew it was over, we just needed the drama to end it.”
The
Abbot drained his glass. “Real life drama” he said,
“I’d love to have seen it.”
“No,
you wouldn't. Real life drama bores you. You do your best
to avoid it.”
“That’s
true,” he said, getting up and collecting their plates.
“Comedy is what I like. It gets us through the agonizing
drama of self-involvement. Where would we be without laughter?”
“Most
likely in a state of depression,” Sativa anwered.
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