Socks Part 2

I learned a new pattern of socks. I enthusiastically wanted to try to make one for experiment, of course for my own benefit. After three days and three nights hard working, the sock came out too big for my foot. So, I kindly offered it to my dear dad with a cheeky smile, “Big dad, it’s quite cold in the winter time. Look at how nice I am, made a woolen sock for you. Isn’t it cute?” I dangled it in front of him, knowing the heel part of the sock is honestly a little messed up, but green is his favorite color. With this in mind, I’m confident that he would like it—he loves anything green!
“Oh, thank you. Put it there.” He pointed at the table where he always put his computer at.
But after a few days, I didn’t see him wearing it. I wondered, “Dad, how come you don’t wear my gift sock?”
“Well, I have two feet you know, and they could both get cold … but you only gave me one sock. I don’t know which foot to put it on? Left or right ... ?”
I love to see him confused by me, and laughed!

But I don’t let him get away with it. I like to see people wearing my works. So, whenever I am at home, I always check to see if he has my sock on. If not, I would put it on him. He helplessly smiles at those moments and tolerates warming one foot at a time.

It’s true that I love to learn new things and to create, but hate to repeat. After I knew how this pattern worked, I no longer have the desire to reproduce another one just like it—how boring. Thus, I ended up making one of a kind single socks in various styles. Maybe when I knitted enough single socks, my dad could possibly find another one similar enough to wear both at a time.

Garbage Beauty

I was in the shower. “Mom!”
“Yes.” Dad replied outside of the bathroom.
“Mom!” I raised my voice.
“Yes!” Dad raised his voice too.
“I was calling for MOM!” I said.
“It’s the same,” Dad replied calmly. “What’s the matter? How can I help you?”
“Well, I was wondering what I should wear” [for a New Year dinner].
“Aiya! Mother, your grown daughter doesn’t know what to wear! She wants you to tell her what to put on!” Dad immediately reported to Mom as if my question was the stupidest, most unheard-of thing to ask.
“Of course I had to ask! I didn’t know what people normally wear here for this kind of party, and mom never likes my clothes.”
“You should wear summer-dancing clothes. What kind of question is that!?” Dad used his usual sarcasm, and still couldn’t get over the fact I dare even to ask such a question.
“Anything warm! Not like your usual crazy ones!” Mom ran down and shouted outside the bathroom door, eagerly trying to get her message clearly through the door.

They don’t really appreciate my style, and never tried to hide the fact that they dislike almost all of my clothes. It just so happens that there is a clearly mentally ill woman who wraps herself with all kinds of different colored textiles and walks around our district from time to time. I am often fascinated by her sense of color and silhouette. But her way of dressing is a big no-no for others in the district. My mom refers her as “Laji Xishi” (“trash beauty”). “Are you trying to dress like the Laji Xishi downstairs?” she sometimes asks me. I understand her implication. But to be honest, I don’t necessarily think this Laji Xishi has a bad sense of style. On the contrary, I take it as a compliment.

One day, I found an XL man’s sweater in my dad’s closet. I was thrilled to discover this 100 percent wool material with square shaped patterns in front. I cut one piece open right below the front neck line, and flipped to the back of the neck. Then, cut off the two sleeves. I like its convenient style so much that as a big special offer, I told my dad that he can feel free to try it on during my absence in the cold season. “It’s big enough to be put on the top of any clothes—very easy to wear.”
Dad replies unhappily, “I wouldn’t wear it even if you sewed it back!”

--- Wrote during my business trip to Chengdu, to support Chengdoo Magazine "Relationships" issue. Published in Oct 07 (??).

Vogue

I was born into a family of an academicians. Fashion is the least of their concerns. My poor dad has no idea why his daughter would buy a fashion magazine with the hard-to-pronounce title of “Vogue” every month.
Out of curiosity, he secretly opened the first few issues by himself—because my mom wouldn’t be so happy to see her husband looking at almost-naked female models in magazines. He then shared his confusion with my uncle who apparently showed him empathy and support. My dad was shocked by the outrageous prices of some of the luxury products.

Dad: It’s crazy: A handbag almost the same price as a car!?
Me: It’s a luxury good. It represents a dream for some people.
Dad: OK. But to make a car requires a lot of work, a lot of parts, and a lot of mechanical designs … He can talk a lot about a car, being an engineer.
Me: OK. To make a luxury bag too, requires a lot of technical work on special materials …
Dad: In any case, I don’t understand why you have to buy 12 issues every year. Each issue looks the same to me. Maybe you could just buy one, it’s enough.

--- Wrote during my business trip in Chengdu, to support Chengdoo Magazine "Relationships" Issue, published in Oct 07 (??)

Socks

My designs often appear “somehow-strange” to my parents and often cause laughter. During my time in Chengdu, my creations have occasionally landed in my parents’ hands at home. Each time this happens, they start a little conversation to guess what they are, where they come from, and where they should go.

Dad: What’s this? [Picks it up and turns it around to view it from all directions.]
Mom: Socks?
Dad: It’s too huge to be socks.
Mom: Hmm, we’d better not to touch it.
Dad: You’re right. It’s probably one of those weird samples Ping made.

In the evening, I cannot find my hat.
Me: Dad, have you seen my hat?
Dad: We dare not touch anything of yours. So no.

He’s afraid that I will blame him for anything I can’t find. Later, I find my hat’s twin, and I dangle it in front of his face. “Look, a piece like this. I made it from a sleeve.”

Dad: "Hahaha! Your mom and I tried for a long time to figure out what that was! Now I see—it’s a sleeve! Here it is.”

I’m so glad that my parents haven’t given me any torn, dirty rags thinking they must be my artwork. So far.

Toilet Paper

I caught cold a few days ago. Ever since then, our family toilet tissue rolls were “mysteriously” disappearing one by one on a daily basis. Partially, because I always left them somewhere else but inside my bag… Of course, my poor parents have no idea that I found an alternative use of their toilet tissue. So, here’s their private conversation happened to enter my ears:

Dad: “Ping uses toilet tissue like crazy these days. Small butt requires that much paper?”

Mom: “She must have a terrible diarrhea.”

One day, they heard me blowing my nose in front of them. Following that blow, I heard my dad’s self whisper with a wring on his face: “What a heart-breaking, nerve wracking noise!” Another end, came my mom’s voice: “I told her she had a big nose!”

Finally, he couldn’t hold any longer, and asked me directly: “why do you use so much our toilet paper for your nose? There’re plenty of facial tissues out there.”

Me: “Because it works. It’s soft, big quantity in small volume.”

Dad: “But it’s the best quality of toilet paper we bought.” He hinted it’s a waste of their high quality tissue for such an improper use.

Me: “But it’s the best quality nose I have too!”

Dad's Complaints

I am used to work late at the night till early morning. Dad said that my “awkward working schedule had seriously affected” his “body and soul”.

“If I only lived to my 70’s, I would scream out loud for the un-justice of your criminal act in the heaven.”

“If I lived to my 80’s, I would publicly announce your crime on the hospital bed.”

“If I lived to my 90’s, I would complain on the sofa at home.”

“If I live to 100 years old, I … would --- celebrate it with --- an egg.” Then he giggled. I guess he is happy with a sweet dream he waves himself into.

Ceiling Pipes

In my new condo, there are several rooms. But my favorite one is the storage room because I love the exposed pipes in the ceiling. During my recent conversation with my dad, I expressed my love for this tiny room, and called it “a room full of character because of these pipes, reminds me of a loft.”

Clearly, dad didn’t like those ugly pipes, and would like me to use it as a storage room as it was supposed to.

But I still didn’t want to ignore its original favor, “I’ve been thinking of how to use this room to its best to take advantage of the pipes on the ceiling.”

“After you go bankrupt, everyone can hang himself on the top of it.” Dad replied.

--- Dad is always very hypercritical of my little fashion business.

Food & Life

Sleep, sex, and our desire for food are controlled by the same part of the brain: When you lack one, you are wired to compensate with others. 

“Food.” My mind is immediately enlightened. Many ideas burst out with excitement. 

Years ago, upon a return trip to Chengdu, I could not find certain foods I had tasted the year prior. “Oh, it’s because duck tongue is no longer popular. This year, we are into eating goose intestine,” people explained. 

Chinese cuisines in China keep up with changing times, culture, and modernity. But outside of China, Chinese restaurants remain unchanged for generations. Partly, it’s because the Chinese overseas are nostalgic, and they prefer old ways of cooking to bring back memories. 

But there’s a more practical reason: Chinese cuisine was exported as early as the late 19th century. At that time, opening restaurants was a way for these immigrants—many of whom came from Guangdong and Fujian provinces with no skills or education—to simply make a living. None were trained as professional chefs. That’s why you’ll never find “chop suey” (a term derived from the Cantonese for “mixed vegetables”) anywhere in China. But thanks to this exotic looking invention, many hardworking Chinese were able to survive and proliferate despite a lack of updated menus.

How excited I was upon my first arrival in America, seeing so many different types of cuisines from different countries! With such a diversity of cultures co-existing, I thought it must be a very interesting place to be, offering tremendous freedom to choose! 

Yet I made the conscious decision to continue eating my own country’s food on a near-daily basis as a way to remind myself of my heritage. 

Nowadays, in the meat sections of American supermarkets, you see more and more organs and body parts of animals due to the ever-growing number of immigrants. One day, I saw a package with two peculiar pieces of meat inside. I couldn’t figure out what it was from the label. Out of curiosity, I asked an employee. “It’s pig testicles,” he said. 

”What!? Who would eat them?” I asked. The guy shrugged his shoulders and walked away. While I was still in shock, an African American man walked by and grabbed them on his way to the cashier. 

Food, for sure, gives you a taste of culture, reflecting history and people. “Spicy girls,” for instance, is a phrase often used to describe Sichuan’s women. The phrase has a triple meaning: the spicy characteristic of our Sichuan cuisine; Sichuan girls’ renowned appearance; and their work ethic, which is said to match that of their beauty. 

Food not only reflects a culture’s past; it also reflects how people view their lives. French and Italians view their culinary culture as an art, an expression of joy. They take time to select quality materials, pay attention to their cooking, and really enjoy the food. When they are dealing with people, they are also the same way: taking time to know a person. 

To me, Americans view food as medicine. In an international supermarket, if you see people checking labels for a product’s nutrition information, most likely, they’re American. American celebrities regularly announce their newest diet discoveries. It seems to have become an eternal topic on the TV alongside news of “the war on terrorism.” 

But does all this education, research, and advertising stop our poor eating habits? One image pops into mind—an image I’ve observed at every office and clinic I’ve worked at: My American colleagues coming back to grab more candy or chocolate from the desk, always guiltily saying to themselves (just loud enough to be heard), “Oh, I know, I know, I shouldn’t do it.” 

From time to time, I hear Chinese women saying the same thing: “How I wish to eat it, but I can’t put more into my ‘fat’ body.” And then they truly don’t touch the food. 

What would I do? More like an American, or a Chinese? I guess it would depend on how good the food is. 

Food is often associated with many happy memories. It reaches deep in our emotions. Growing up in a busy Chinese family, dinnertime was always sacred as it might be the only time we spent as a whole family each day. My mom is an excellent Sichuan-style cook. Every Saturday dinner was the time for the entire family to get together at Grandma’s house—the happiest moment of the week. Cousins, uncles, aunts, grandparents … so much fun, such good food. I learned so much growing up just from listening to the adults talk. 

As I never ate alone before I started to live on my own, the loneliness and the silence during meal time when I first went to the U.S. was unbearable. For years, I ate out almost every lunch and dinner, just to be among people—even if they were strangers—until I got so sick just from the smell of restaurant products miles away. 

God, I miss my grandma’s cooking! “Why didn’t we ever write down Grandma’s recipes?” I used to say to myself. But now, I understand: It’s not only about the food. It’s the taste of a happy family. Even if I did write down Grandma’s recipes, the Saturday-night dinners wouldn’t be the same. 

Have you ever asked yourself: How do you usually serve food? And eat food? Do you give the best to your guests, to your loved ones, or to yourself? Do you eat the best food first or save the best for last? The answers may reveal how you relate to others, and your attitude toward life.

It doesn’t matter if you’re a Chinese farmer bent over in the field, facing sun and rain day after day, or a fisher on the Dutch coast catching king crabs on dangerous stormy nights: “谁知盘中餐，粒粒皆辛苦*” (Do you know on a plate of rice/Every grain is yielded by toil?). I am not religious, but I am very touched every time I see my religious friends give thanks for the food before eating. What a great attitude to have for something we could easily take for granted!

Food is a universal language shared across the boundaries of nationality. It brings us closer. If “above all nations is humanity,” then, I would say “Behind humanity, there has to be food.” 

Food goes beyond ingredients: it brings our culture, history, people, memories, and attitude toward life in general back to us, and mixes them all in a compact visual form. Life is beautiful anyway. With good food, it is even better.

*Shéi zhī pánzhōngcān, lìlì jiē xīnkǔ is a line from Tang Dynasty poet Li Shen’s (李绅) “Empathy for the Farmer” (“悯农”).

--- Wrote to support Chengdoo Magazine "Eat & Drink" issue. Published in Nov 07 (??).