My dad has been addicted to a specific Chinese restaurant
for a few months now.  Instead of me cooking
at his place on Sundays, we drive over to this Chinese restaurant.  It’s about a 20 minute drive from his place
(mostly highway).  On Sundays, I make
soup and sometimes a dish and bring it over for one of his weekday meals.  But I used to bring food over and cook at his
place.  Now that he’s found this
restaurant, we seldom eat at home anymore. 

He just devours the food there.  It’s not fancy food but it appeals to
him.  The waiters now recognize us as
regulars.  So we get the free soup and
red bean dessert.  The soup is usually
from a pork stock with chicken legs, some peanuts or black eye peas.  Sometimes they’ll have other things in the
stock too.  When we take the leftovers
home, the waiter also slips us a small container of soup.

Inevitably my dad and I always confuse the waiters in any
Chinese restaurant.  I speak a teeny bit
of Cantonese.  My dad speaks fluent
Cantonese and Toisan.  But he is also
deaf in one ear and refuses to wear a hearing aid.  Since I was a kid, I’ve always spoken English
to my dad.  So when the waiters ask us a
question. I simply repeat it to my dad in English because I know he probably
didn’t hear it.  The waiters usually
conclude my dad doesn’t speak Chinese.   But when they try to talk to me in Chinese, I just
stammer and smile.  My dad then jumps in,
if he has heard the question, in Chinese. 
They usually walk away with a confused look. 

My dad’s preference for this restaurant has created an
opportunity for my bf to tease me.  “He
doesn’t like your cooking anymore?”   We always tease each other about our
cooking.  One time, I made this huge dish
of chicken with mushrooms in oyster sauce and brought it over to my parent’s
place.  After dinner, my mom asked me to
take some of the leftovers home because they won’t be able to finish all of
it.  Of course my bf laughed when he
heard that.  “Matt, maybe she was trying to
tell you something.”  Growl… Speaking of
my bf, he made hotpot tonight and also cooked 4 lobsters! 

A relative of mine sent me pictures that he had scanned.  They are pictures of my family from years
ago.  I was just a little brat back
then and had this smug look.  My brother and sister had their usual brother and sister look.  When I look at them now, I can see them as they are years ago.  My mom had a big framed glasses
and a gentle smile.  Dad had a big grin
and looked vaguely  like Russell Wong.  I
was struck by how young he looked, a head full of hair, bright eyes – full of
life, vigor and joy.  His career was on
the rise and he was getting well known in the business community.   He was
happily married with a young family. 

A few years after that picture was taken, he would immigrate
to Canada
to a very uncertain future.  He put aside
his own career for a new start – for us.  I don’t know if he knew how tough and how
humbling it would be. 

By coincidence, I’m the same age now as he was in the
picture.  I can’t help but compare how
much more he’s accomplished at my age than what I’ve accomplished so far.  He’s faced greater challenges than I
have.  By comparison, I’ve had an easy
life.  I never experienced a war.  I always had food on the table and a roof
over my head.  I went to good
schools.  I had all the essentials.   

I guess the pictures triggered a mixture of emotions.  It’s a combination of appreciation of my parent’s sacrifices, happiness at some old memories and the feeling of not being good
enough.  Logically these old feelings of insecurities don’t make  make sense.  But insecurities can be persistent.  It’s almost like rust in some ways.  You just have to keep yourself buffed, honed
and strong.  If you ignore it, they’ll eat you up. 

I’ve been spending a lot of time at my dad’s place during the summer helping him clean the basement after it got flooded from a drainage problem.   It really hasn’t been cleaned in
years and  the basement  was simply being used for storage.  We had to move all the furniture and stuff into another part of the basement so that the contractors could do their repairs.  But before we could do that, we had to clean out a lot of stuff to make room.   My dad isn’t one to
throw away magazines, books and the numerous newspaper clippings.  Mom kept lots of stuff too – just in case we
needed it again.  Both grew up in the war
where you simply don’t throw things out. 
So I understand the emotional need to hang on to things.  It was tough gathering some of my mom’s
clothes and getting them bagged for donation.  What got me was the smell of the clothes.  I swear I could still smell her but maybe my mind was playing tricks on me.  We also carefully sorted
through her old paintings.  She was a
very talented painter.  I marveled at her
skill.  As a child I would watch her arrange her rice papers, prepare the various inks.  The only time I could help was washing her brushes.  As she got older, her arthritis made it impossible to paint anymore.  But she never complained. We moved all of her paintings upstairs and the rest of her papers and brushes went to my brother’s place and my condo. 

Dad couldn’t bear to see us throwing or donating so many things.  From time to time, he would come down to see what was going on.  My sister or my brother would take turns shooing him back upstairs.  He was in agony when he saw some of the things
being  hauled away.  He was particularly worried that we
would throw out his books and magazines.  I made several trips to my bf’s
place with boxes and boxes of books.  I assured him that I wasn’t throwing out his books. 

Later I sat down with him and told him he has too many books and magazines.  He’ll need to make some tough decisions on what to keep and what to donate.  I tried to tell him that others could make use of these books and it wasn’t doing anything just sitting in the basement.  I encouraged him to start thinking of which ones he could donate.  His lowered his eyes and told me softly that he doesn’t have any friends or close relatives anymore and these books are his companions right now.  I swallowed hard and looked away.  I mumbled something but those softly spoken words hit me very hard. 

The basement is all repaired now with new carpets and walls.  His book cases are back up and it’s jammed full.  He knows he still has many, many books that are in boxes.  He reminded me about the books at my bf’s place.  I told him I will bring them back little by little but he needs to make room for them. 

I’ve been thinking how to clean up all of his things when he passes on.  Right now, it’s easy for me to decide that his books will be donated or sold off.  But I know when the time comes, it won’t be easy for me to part with his friends.