Free Kitchen Chaos by Deborah A. Levine Page B

takeout.
    Holding her glowing wok up for inspection, my mother offers one of her pronouncements. “The history of cooking in the United States—sounds very ambitious for a children’s cooking class,” she sniffs. “What kind of experience does the instructor have?”
    I’ve just rinsed off the last bowl, and now I’m making little towers out of the soapsuds floating in the dirty water. “The teacher is a very famous chef,” I explain. “He even has his own cooking show on TV.”
    My mother looks unimpressed, which doesn’t surprise me. Other than the news and a Chinese soap opera she got addicted to last year when she broke her foot and was stuck in bed, she doesn’t watch much TV. I’m the complete opposite, because I’ll watchpretty much anything, even really boring sports like golf with my dad.
    â€œAnd this very famous chef is teaching a cooking class just for children?” my mother asks, narrowing her eyes.
    â€œWell,” I say, demolishing my city of soapsuds, “not exactly.” It’s time to channel my inner ox. “It’s not actually a children’s class. It’s an adult class that will allow kids. Kids accompanied by an adult. And I was thinking maybe we could take it together.”
    At first the next part of the conversation goes exactly as I expected it would. My mother looks at me like I’m crazy, sighs, and says she doesn’t need someone else to teach her how to cook. I tell her that I know she’s good, but taking the class is really important to me, that we can’t take it without her, and can’t she just do this one thing that I want?
    My mother hangs the wok on its hook and walks back over to the sink, where I’m still watching the tiny soap bubbles pop one by one in the oily dishwater. Ipeek up to test the atmosphere. She’s staring at me, and I can see her face soften. “Yang Yang,” she says, using my Chinese name, “I have no need to learn to cook these foods. We are Chinese.”
    Suddenly, I feel a sharp pain in my stomach. It lasts only a second or two, but I know right away what it is: a kick from the tiny ox inside me, reminding me to stand my ground.
    â€œWell,” I begin, “you may be Chinese, but I’m both. Chinese and American. You chose to stay here, and you chose to have us here, so you chose for me to be both. And right now I want us to learn about American traditions too.” She doesn’t seem to be weakening, so I throw out my last, desperate argument. “Or are you afraid you won’t be as good at American cooking as you are at Chinese?”
    Nothing in my mom’s expression changes except her jaw, which tightens as she makes a tiny clicking sound in her throat. She makes this sound very effectively—and often—to show irritation or to herdus where she wants us to go. But right now it tells me she’s trying to decide whether or not to get really angry. Her inner Taurus the Bull has taken over for the ox, and I’m the one holding the red scarf.
    â€œDon’t be ridiculous, Lillian. If I can make bird’s nest soup, I’m quite sure I can make a French fry or a hamburger patty.”
    I may not be able to tighten my jaw and click as well as she can, but when I put my hand on one hip, I can look pretty fierce. “Okay then, Mama,” I say, “prove it.”
    Even a slacker goat like me knows that a bull rarely says no to a challenge. My mother flares her nostrils like the massive hoofed creatures within her. This is it: The class, the project, and my best shot at making friends so far this year all depend on whether my mother decides to charge or hold her ground.
    Mama locks eyes with me for another long moment. Then, slowly, the corners of her mouth begin to rise. She’s smiling, but there’s a glint in her eye that’s not entirely friendly. Goat and I have won.
    â€œFine,” she