My favorite form of love language is through food. I am in love with the process of making food, eating food, and serving food. The crisp feeling of fresh tomatoes being sliced or the sizzle of raw tofu hitting a hot oiled pan; I live for these moments. They exist in between the chaos of life and allow me to fully immerse myself into the creation of bringing a meal together.
Recently I’ve been lucky enough to attend and host a potluck. These gatherings have embedded themselves into fond memories that I can look back on and feel immense gratitude for.
Although I have a healthy reputation for being a naturally good cook, I credit my wonderful father for imparting some of his cooking knowledge onto me. I hesitate to cook for others. I have insecurities over the ratio, type of, and maybe lack of spices and ingredients present in a dish. I have a hovering fear of cooking something traditionally Vietnamese and how this will be perceived in alignment with my identity. I feel sensitive to the opinions of acquired tastes from different cultures and their reaction to my cooking. Nevertheless, I am used to juggling my anxiety alongside the inner knowing that I would rather participate and prove my insecurities wrong or challenge myself to learn more about them than not try at all.
At my first potluck, I began cooking as soon-to-be friends trickled into the cramped college apartment kitchen. Each person walking in served as a reminder of how many opinions I would receive. My anxiety began to crescendo, as the circus of a cooking show that I was conducting, seemed to feel insurmountable. The what-ifs rolled through my mind. What if I made all of this food and nobody would end up liking it except for me? What if I added too much oyster sauce? What if this is too bland? Finally, the show came to an end when I finished cooking and presented the food.
To my fortunate surprise, I received good feedback from these friends. I learned from this experience that appreciation for someone else’s food is a recognition of their experience in this world. It’s a form of validation for someone’s existence as if to say, “I acknowledge the way that you care for your own body and through this meal, I understand you just a little bit more”. To momentarily be given a glimpse of what makes us feel nourished and loved. Maybe the food triggers a special memory or a story. Through this it transcends into a story from childhood, a piece of poetry, to speak slowly with another on the balcony, or to fall asleep on the couch on a full stomach.