Death and Cooking

On Monday, March 18, my grandmother passed away at 78 years old. My grandmother, Kaet, was an immigrant from Laos. She immigrated from Laos in 1974, with her four children. She later gave birth to a fifth child in the States. As the Vietnam War was starting to come to a close, my family was being prosecuted because my grandfather had been working with the CIA as an interpreter. My family left everything behind to save themselves, but they brought much of their culture with them.

I went down to Florida three days after my grandmother died. When I was younger, my mother was still working in the restaurant industry. I can’t remember exactly where she was, but I remember spending time at her restaurants. My father had already left the industry behind to do something more sustainable. He settled with mortgages. Something that a lot of people don’t understand, including some people in the industry, is that family and the service industry cannot exist at the same time. When you work in a restaurant, oftentimes, you get out hours after the rest of the world is asleep. The only thing to do is try to unwind after work, and you will often end up at a bar surrounded by other industry workers. I have started to learn this. I often spend my nights after work at a bar across the street. This also means that you don’t get to see your family, since you will get home long after they have gone to sleep. I didn’t see my parents an awful lot growing up. I spent most of my time at my grandparents’ house. My grandmother taught me much of what I know, and played a large role in raising me. I called her Mom. Between my mother and Mom, I was taught the basics of cooking fairly young. I helped where I could, but I was still a kid so I didn’t bother most of the time.

My mother doesn’t cook very much Asian food at home. She can cook anything she wants. Both of my parents graduated from the Culinary Institute of America in Hyde Park, New York. They met one winter, during a snowstorm. Many students were snowed into a building after a night class. My dad went to talk to my mom on a dare. They have been together for over 30 years now. While my mother doesn’t cook a lot of Asian food at home, she does when we visit my grandparents. Many times in the past few years, my mother and I have dropped everything to run down to Florida to help take care of my grandmother. Once again, we dropped everything to go down to Florida. My mother left on Saturday morning. I went on Thursday, five days after her. I was far too late. My mother told me when she was going, and said that I may need to come down later. I was hopeful that I would be able to make it in time. It sounded like I had enough. We had both miscalculated. Mom had been ill for a very long time, and often had periods of time when her illness got worse. She had kidney disease, and she was diabetic.

When we visited, we almost exclusively cooked Asian food. To specify, we cooked Lao food. Asian food is an extremely broad term, and the cuisine of each Asian country is wildly different because of how different they are developmentally and culturally. There are often a few things that are noticed across all Asian cultures, like respect for elders and strictness, but each culture functions quite differently. Lao culture in the States is very stressful, which is interesting, because Laos is a fairly underdeveloped country, and its people are generally easy going. The people are hard working, and they live very humble lives, but I wouldn’t think they are anywhere near as uptight as Lao immigrants are. Perhaps it is a product of needing to affirm to oneself that they are different from those they left behind. Things have to be done in very particular ways in order to be considered correct, or in order to adhere to tradition. All Asian culture is heavily steeped in tradition.

We made many traditional dishes. Most of everything is fermented, or it goes into a stew, soup, or salad. Just vegetables, herbs, and protein. Lots of salt and acid. Everything goes with rice. I think this is because they are too poor to afford infrastructure that allows for electricity and refrigeration outside of cities, so many things are cured or fermented to last longer. Bamboo shoots, for example, are a staple of Lao cuisine. They can be stewed, put into a soup, or put into a salad. That’s the long and short of Lao cooking. These few processes apply to many vegetables, and proteins are prepared separately. Usually grilled or roasted. However, what makes the food so interesting is how they prepare it. In the language, there are words for each specific process. The words become indicators of the styles of stew, soup, or salad. Things become very particular. Papaya salad cannot be shredded or peeled. The papaya must be hacked away with a knife in order to ensure the strips of papaya are thick enough that when they are crushed by hand, and mixed with fermented fish paste, they are still thick and toothy. It also has to be really spicy. The Lao have a saying: “Not hot, not good.” Bamboo stew is wildly different from bamboo soup. The stew is thick, the bamboo is tender and loose, cut into thin strips. It must be cooked, essentially braised, on low heat for a number of hours. The soup has thick strips that aren’t quite as soft. The liquid is also not nearly as thick, and it doesn’t feature as much greenery that is cooked down. In the salad, they can either be crushed or lightly boiled. Shoots are cut into thin strips in salad. There are no herbs in the salad. My mother and I ate bamboo stew with mushrooms the first morning that I was there. I had arrived the previous night. We made the stew with my grandmother on one of our last visits, and frozen it for later, since my grandfather is not used to cooking for himself much. My uncle Lon lives with him and he cooks most nights.

The cooking brigade consisted of myself, my mother, Lon, Mom’s sister and some aunts on Mom’s side. All the family was in town from each side. People stopped by the house every day, from Thursday to Tuesday. We woke up early to cook everyday, for roughly 20 people. Lunch and dinner. Members of the Lao community in St. Pete brought gifts, money, and food for us to cook. We spent all of our time cooking, praying, and catching up. Strangely, there is an extremely dense Asian population in St. Petersburg; you can find at least one Chinese place, Thai place, and Vietnamese place in every shopping plaza. Never Lao restaurants though.

My grandmother, when she was still in good health, spent all of her time cooking and tending to her garden. As her health declined, she couldn’t stay outside for long since her immune system was compromised. Towards the end, she couldn’t even lift herself out of bed. When she was still able to cook, she had to cook for my grandfather, Lon, my other uncle Tim, his two kids, and his girlfriend. In Laotian culture, it’s normal for wives to cook for everyone with no help. Cooking in Lao culture is a huge responsibility. If the food isn’t good, everyone has to eat it regardless of whether or not they want to. To cook badly is a disgrace to the food itself, because it is forbidden to waste what you cook or what you put on your plate. When we were cooking, my mother and I worked as a team and relegated simpler tasks to everyone else. Although I was leading the squad with her, I was constantly criticized by the other women who did not bother to help. Too long, too short, too thin, too thick, wrong shape, not following tradition, they said. Funnily enough, the men had no qualms because they had no idea how to cook, and for another man to help with cooking was incredible to them. On Friday, Lon and I received roughly 40 pounds of fish from a market owner who was fond of Mom. She always bought fish there because she said they were the freshest, by the smell. We gutted and cleaned them, marinated them whole and grilled them later.

We made lots of stews. Most of Laotian cooking is crude, involving ingredients you would never see in the West. On the first night, we had roasted duck heads. Surprisingly, the beak is edible as well. You can eat the whole thing, besides the skull. On the second night, we had an herbal stew with ant larvae in it. On the third night, we had boiled intestines and fermented pork sausage. My mother and I joke that Lao food is the only food that you will not see in a restaurant in the West. People can eat Thai and Vietnamese food all day long, but ask them to eat duck brains and fish heads and they will cower. Lao people however, will almost exclusively eat Lao food. Food, specifically traditional food, is sacred to Lao people. When we went to the temple, we offered food to the monks first and foremost. We eat only after the monks have eaten. Going to church, for Lao people, is basically a cookout with a lot of extra steps.

In my grandmother’s eulogy, it was mentioned how good of a cook she was. In fact, most of the eulogy was about how valuable she was because of her ability to cook. It was written by my grandfather, but delivered by my aunt, who did not visit her before she died. While it was true that her food was the best, I found it odd that her ability to cook overshadowed her ability to put up with everyone’s shit and still love them. While it doesn’t sit right with me, I suppose that in Lao culture a woman’s worth is solely determined by her abilities as a caretaker. My grandmother was an incredibly strong woman. She was educated, kind, and patient. She was a mother, sister, aunt, grandmother, teacher, and she was an incredibly good cook. Even through illness, she still cared for and provided for her family. That last bowl of stew that I had that morning was the last bit of her cooking that I will ever eat. It was an important meal.

While cooking is usually a way to express love for others, I cooked begrudgingly on that trip. Everyone that I was tasked with feeding had a different relationship with Mom, but everyone still came for the food. My mother had to cook the entire time, who had gone down to Florida the previous Saturday and held Mom in her arms as she drew her last breath. There were people that still had the audacity to snap at her for being tired and not doing things traditionally to save time and effort. We were silent when we got back to the hotel every night. My mother was not given time to grieve until we got home. I spent the night at home after the drive back and my mother collapsed in my arms in the morning. We had pushed the button just two days before. My hand was the last to touch the casket as it went into the crematorium. Per my grandmother’s last wishes, I had become a monk temporarily for the funeral. I was not allowed to cry. I was not allowed to show that I cared.

The last time I saw my grandmother alive was in November of last year. I remember being at work when I received the news from my mother that Mom was back in the hospital, and that they were planning on moving her into hospice. I sat outside for a long time. I cried in front of my boss. We’ve known each other for a long time, so it was okay. He had just lost his dad the year before. I held the restaurant down while they were out of town. I couldn’t really wrap my head around the fact that my grandmother was dying. I knew she was, it had been looming for years. But I never knew how I would face it when the time actually came. I was a coward. I didn’t call as much as I should have because I was scared. I didn’t know what to say. Mom would always tell me to be good since she wasn’t going to be around much longer. As much as I loved talking to her, I hated calling. It broke me every time.

I got the week off of work to go visit in November. We initially were going to visit my grandparents on my dad’s side, but since it was urgent, we went straight to St. Pete. We would later visit them on the way back. I remember getting to the hospital the first day, and seeing Mom. She was a shell, the shadow of the woman who raised me, ravaged by illness and tired of being unhappy. But she was happy to see us. She was still my Mom. Just tired, and older. My mother and my sister brushed her hair and did her nails. I went on a walk with my grandfather. When I got back, I held her hand for a long time.

The day she was moved into hospice was a quiet one. We didn’t do much. We just waited until she was moved so we could go visit. Of course, we cooked for everyone. We went to see her at night, just before bed. I walked into that building knowing that it would be the last time I saw my grandmother, but I held on to this hope that it wouldn’t be. Technically, it wasn’t. I spoke to her on a video call the night before she passed. She blew me a kiss and told me she loved me. It was the last time I saw her in person at least. It took me about 45 minutes to say everything I needed to say. It was only a few sentences. But I couldn’t get them out. I couldn’t make it real. Eventually, I did. I sat with her for a long time. I can’t remember if she asked me to stay.

In the days following, I grieved, since I thought it really was the last time I would see her. When we got home, my sister and I received news that Mom was transferred out of hospice and was back home. For a bit, we thought things were better. We knew it wouldn’t last though. Years after my father lost his mother, we talked about avoiding death. He said he wished he called her more. I know now how he felt. In the months between her coming home and passing, I called more than a few times, but it will never feel like enough. I am just glad I was able to have that last call with her, before it became real.

When I stepped out of the crematorium, I stood in the hot Florida sun for a while. The sky was a rich blue. It was quiet. I was focusing on breathing. I had been all day. I had just shaved my head, so I wasn’t quite used to how hot the sun felt on my head. Mom’s sister was the one to push the button. She was reeling, on her knees, head in her hands and tears streaming down her face. As monks, we were not allowed to touch or be touched by anyone, especially women. I could not hold my own mother, or my sister who was crying too. I had grappled with this all day, and it hurt me. At a certain point though, trying to let go worked. I watched everyone around me mourn and it never occurred to me that I should be mourning too. I think I may have just been in shock. I had just wheeled the most important woman in my life, the woman who raised me, who I loved more than anything, into an incinerator.

We went home, and did a ritual to renounce our monkhood. My father and all of Mom’s sons had gone through the ritual as well. We prayed, cast off the robes, and prayed more. Then, it was back to cooking. Our last two nights were permeated by an air of defeat. We had been in Florida much longer than any of us would’ve liked. My mother was exhausted. Our lives were still on hold, and by the time we all headed home the work was cut out for us. For me, I had about two weeks of school to catch up on, and a new job waiting on me.

In a funny way, cooking is inexorable from death. It is our nature to consume. For us to consume, something must first die. We prepare it, and sometimes, we give thanks. And then we eat. For me, when somebody dies, it means we have to cook. A lot. A crematorium is a lot like an oven too.

The trip was stressful, and sad. I was not happy to be there. I knew I needed to to honor my grandmother, so I went, but I knew what responsibilities these trips came with. At a certain point, it wasn’t about her death anymore. It was about following the rules. The pressure of cooking, stress of the kitchen, and frustration of being yelled at in another language, from another culture much different from what I am used to. I did my best to abstain from alcohol while I was there, but much like getting off of work, it’s the only thing to calm you down when you get home. I think now, I have begun to mourn, now that the cooking is finally over.