Introduction
I wasn’t born here—I was born in a refugee camp in Thailand. We came to Long Beach to survive. Emotionally, it was jarring. The noise, the strangers, the concrete everywhere—it felt like the ground had shifted beneath us. There was a deep loneliness wrapped in confusion, like we had left one hardship behind only to enter another. We didn’t know the language, the rules, or where we belonged. But we tried to plant new roots anyway, even in soil that didn’t feel welcoming.
I’m Cambodian, Thai, Chinese, and maybe more—a boiling pot of traditions, kitchen wisdom, and quiet resilience. For years, we didn’t have the luxury of hobbies or rituals. Life was about survival. But later in life, when time finally slowed and I began to listen to my own rhythm, I found myself drawn back to the very things I once overlooked: herbs, food, memories.
This is a book about what we ate, what we laughed about, and what we carried with us. It’s a collection of real-life family food adventures—some delicious, some disastrous—but all rooted in love.
Chapter 1 – The Bowl of Rice and an Egg
How a bowl of rice, an egg, and some shame became a lesson in love and identity
When you’re a kid, fitting in feels like survival.
Blending in is safer than being seen. And being seen as “too Asian” in a mostly white school? That felt like a risk I wasn’t willing to take.
Back then, my mom offered—wanted—to pack lunch for us.
She would’ve made steamed rice, a sunny-side-up egg with crisp edges, and a drizzle of salty-sweet Maggi seasoning on top. A simple meal we ate all the time at home. Sometimes she’d include pickled vegetables or greens, maybe even something fermented and full of flavor. It was her way of taking care of us.
But I refused.
Not because I didn’t love her food.
But because I didn’t want to be that girl.
The Asian girl with the “weird-smelling” lunch.
The one people stared at. The one who made the cafeteria go quiet when she opened her thermos.
Even though many of my friends were Cambodian, Thai, or Vietnamese too—we all felt it. The need to distance ourselves. To hide what was ours.
So I told my mom not to pack anything. I’d say, “It’s okay, I’ll eat at school.”
And luckily, our school offered free lunch and breakfast for low-income families like mine. That cafeteria tray became my shield. It didn’t matter if the food was bland or soggy—I didn’t have to feel different.
And that, to little me, was worth more than taste.
But now, as an adult who’s reclaimed the smells and spices of home with pride, I think about that girl and how much she was missing.
That bowl of rice and egg wasn’t just lunch—it was love.
It was my mother’s heart in edible form. A reminder of where I came from. Of who I was.
And I turned it down—because I hadn’t yet learned how to hold both pride and pain in the same hand.
Now?
That same dish is what I crave when I’m sick, when I’m sad, or when I just need grounding. It’s humble. It’s healing. It’s heritage.
And every bite tastes like coming home to the part of myself I used to hide.
Recipe: Simple Rice and Egg Bowl
You’ll need:
- Steamed jasmine rice
- 1 sunny-side-up egg
- A splash of soy sauce
- A pinch of white pepper
To make:
- Scoop freshly steamed jasmine rice into a bowl.
- Fry an egg sunny-side-up and gently place it on top of the rice.
- Drizzle soy sauce over the top and sprinkle with white pepper.
- Serve warm and enjoy immediately.
Chapter 2 – The Day the Candy Was Stolen
DIY: Halloween Candy Bag
How a stolen pillowcase, a silent clown, and a sibling pact made Halloween unforgettable
When you’re a kid, Halloween feels like wizardry.
You dress up, knock on strangers’ doors, say “Trick or treat!”—and they give you candy. For free. It felt too good to be true—and sometimes, it was.
My older brother was only a year ahead of me, but back then, that felt like a lot. He got to do things I couldn’t yet—like go trick-or-treating without a grown-up. That year, he wore a clown costume. Not the cute kind, either. One of those cheap rubber masks with sweaty eyeholes and a smile that looked halfway between funny and cursed. It was cheap—but it was scary.
He went out with his friend, pillowcases in hand, both of them excited to fill their bags to the top. I stayed home, handing out candy. But it wasn’t long before the two of them came back early—and something was clearly wrong.
They’d been robbed.
A group of older kids had run up, laughed in their faces, and snatched their pillowcases. Just like that—everything they’d collected was gone.
His friend—who was a little older—left soon after, upset and quiet. My brother didn’t say much. But I could tell. He was crushed.
Then my dad stood up.
He didn’t say a word.
He just grabbed that creepy clown mask and walked out the front door.
We watched him go, no questions asked. Just a man in a rubber clown mask vanishing into the darkness.
He didn’t come back with the kids or the stolen candy. That wasn’t the point. But when he returned, he handed my brother a pillowcase that had maybe a third of what he’d lost. Just enough to soften the blow. To say: I see you. I can’t undo what happened, but I can still show up.
My brother didn’t cry. He didn’t gloat. He just took out a piece of candy and handed it to me and my sister.
“Here,” he said. “You can have some.”
It wasn’t everything.
But it was enough.
Because sometimes, being a big brother isn’t about being tougher.
It’s about sharing what little you have left.
And sometimes, being a dad doesn’t mean fixing everything.
It means putting on a scary clown mask and walking into the night—just because your kid needs you to.
You’ll need:
- 1 pillowcase
- Fabric paint or markers
- Reflective tape
- Shoelaces or ribbon (for backpack straps)
To make:
- Decorate the pillowcase with Halloween designs using fabric paint or markers.
- Add strips of reflective tape for nighttime safety.
- Sew or tie shoelaces to the top corners to make shoulder straps.
- Let dry completely before use.
Chapter 3 – The Garden on the Side of the House
Where raspberries grew tall, kindness came easy, and I learned what it meant to grow something for yourself
We didn’t stay long in Farmington, Maine—just a few years—but the roots we put down in that small town were real. Not just the kind you find in the ground, but the kind that grow from shared meals, honest work, and quiet kindness between neighbors.
Our little house had a narrow strip of land on the side, and my parents—like many of the families around us—were given a small plot to grow vegetables and herbs. It wasn’t much, but it was ours. And for the first time, we didn’t just buy our food—we grew it.
May in Farmington was soft and green, with a chill that lingered in the soil but didn’t scare it. The town was full of people who raised animals or worked on orchards. Everyone had a rhythm to the land. Chickens in backyards, goat fences patched with twine, fruit trees heavy with promise. And there we were, a Cambodian family planting bok choy, cilantro, bitter melon, and lemongrass in that small corner of Maine.
We learned to compost, to water in the early morning, to pinch bugs off leaves with our fingers. It was self-sufficiency not born out of trend, but out of need—and soon, out of love. There was something satisfying about digging into the earth and pulling out food that would end up on our dinner table.
But what I remember most vividly was what grew behind our house.
Our back neighbors had a row of raspberries—long and tall—almost like hedges built from fruit. They were so well-maintained, it felt like a garden wall that reached to the sky. To us kids, it was magical.
My brother, sister, and I would sneak around the back, barely able to resist the berries that peeked through the fence. At first, we stole them—thinking, they’re fruit, they’re free, right? We’d giggle with purple fingers and berry-stained mouths, caught between guilt and glee.
One day, the neighbors saw us. But instead of scolding, they invited us in. They brought out board games. Let us stay and play. Treated us not like trespassers, but like curious children who needed a little kindness.
That day stayed with me.
It wasn’t just about raspberries.
It was about community.
It was about people who raised more than food—they raised the bar for how people could treat one another.
That garden on the side of the house, and that berry wall behind it, planted something else in me:
The idea that food connects us. That growing something is more than nourishment. It’s belonging. It’s care. It’s generosity that starts in the soil and stretches, quietly, to the people around you.
Recipe: Raspberry Root Tincture
You’ll need:
- 1 tbsp dried raspberry roots
- 4 oz high-proof alcohol (vodka or brandy)
- 1 glass jar with a tight lid
To make:
- Place raspberry roots into the jar.
- Pour alcohol over the roots until fully submerged.
- Seal and store in a cool, dark place for 4 weeks.
- Shake daily.
- After 4 weeks, strain and store in a dropper bottle.
To use:
Take as a uterine tonic as directed by your herbal practitioner.
Chapter 4 – The Poisonous Chef
How my mom went from spoiled brat to survival cook, and why her morning glory is still my favorite dish
If you had asked my mom as a young girl to make dinner, she would’ve looked at you like you’d just insulted her.
She didn’t cook—not because she was lazy, but because she never had to.
Before the war, both of my parents lived comfortable middle-class lives. Their families had status, stability, and enough to never worry about where the next meal would come from. My mom was, by her own admission, spoiled. Her biggest responsibility in the kitchen might’ve been washing her hands before someone else brought out the food.
Then came the war. Then came the escape. Then came Long Beach, California.
And everything changed.
Suddenly, she had to cook. Had to figure it out. Had to stretch a dollar. And let’s just say… it was a rough start.
We joke now that she poisoned us on a regular basis. Not on purpose—just out of sheer inexperience. The rice was too hard. The soup too salty. The fried foods too strange, too scorched, or too slippery. And we, the loyal children, became her unwilling taste testers.
We’d complain (loudly), gag (dramatically), and beg her not to make that dish again.
And she’d shout, “Then cook for yourself!”
Angry? Yes.
Offended? Always.
But she kept going.
She learned from neighbors. From friends. From watching other aunties swap herbs and tips and gossip in the shared yards between apartments. She learned how to make vegetables stretch. How to flavor rice without wasting meat. How to balance a meal using what she could afford at the corner store or the local Asian market. Slowly, she found her rhythm.
Her food is still not perfect. And I mean that with love.
But it became ours.
It’s the taste of growing up. The flavor of home.
And if you asked me today to name a dish that reminds me of her—the one that showed up on our table more than any other—it would be Morning Glory Stir-Fry.
Recipe: Stir-Fried Morning Glory
You’ll need:
- 1 bunch water spinach (morning glory), cleaned and chopped
- 2–3 cloves garlic, smashed
- 1 tbsp oil
- 1 tbsp fish sauce
- 1 tsp sugar
To make:
- Heat oil in a pan or wok over medium-high heat.
- Add garlic and sauté until fragrant.
- Add morning glory and toss quickly.
- Drizzle fish sauce and sprinkle sugar while stirring.
- Cook for 2–3 minutes until tender but bright green.
- Serve hot with steamed rice.
Chapter 5 – Borrowed Worlds
How a stack of picture books at the Martin Luther King Library became my first passport out of survival mode
When you’re little, the world feels small.
Sometimes too small—especially when you don’t quite fit in it.
Between first and third grade, me and my younger sibling spent almost every weekend at the Martin Luther King Jr. Library—our neighborhood public library in Long Beach. It was just a walk or short drive away, but to us, it felt like crossing into another universe.
I still remember how official it felt the first time we went. We were told we had to fill out a form to get a library card—a borrower’s card. Just the idea that you could sign your name and then walk out with six books in your backpack was magical. We didn’t have money to buy books. But here, they let you take them for free—as long as you brought them back.
Six books at a time.
Six chances to escape.
Six worlds to borrow, just for a little while.
At first, I couldn’t even read yet. So I’d pick out picture books—big, colorful ones full of animals and make-believe lands and kids who looked like they belonged in a world without hunger or hand-me-downs that didn’t fit. Stories that didn’t involve trying to hide the holes in your shoes or wondering if people could smell that your jacket had been someone else’s first.
At school, I often felt like an outsider.
We were poor. I wore clothes that were obviously too big or too tight. I constantly worried that the other kids could see that we didn’t have enough.
And even among the Asian kids, I sometimes didn’t feel “Asian enough” or “American enough.”
But in the pages of those books?
None of that mattered.
There was no racism in those stories.
No social class to navigate.
No cafeteria shame, no comparing whose lunch was cooler, no sideways glances when you wore something twice in a row.
There were only adventures, and animals that talked, and magical forests, and kids solving mysteries with flashlights and courage.
Books let me imagine a different way of being—a life not defined by survival, but by curiosity. Not by what I lacked, but by what I could dream.
And somehow, through all of it, reading became a quiet rebellion.
It became a way to say, I am more than this moment. I am more than what I’ve been handed.
Those borrowed worlds didn’t just entertain me.
They expanded me.
They taught me that imagination was its own kind of power—and that sometimes, it’s the only thing that can carry you past the walls you were born inside.
We also look forward when the Paleta man rolled through the courtyard, it felt like another kind of storybook. His bike rattled with each bump, a heavy metal cooler balanced on the back, clinking with dry ice. He rang his bell like a siren call, summoning us from every corner. My heart would race, already plotting how to get a dollar from my parents. Sometimes it worked, other times I’d cry, dramatically declaring, “You don’t love me!” because ice cream felt like the key to happiness. That sound—that bell—meant magic was passing by. And now, I make my own magic at home.
Recipe: Paleta de Crema de Fruta
You’ll need:
- 1 cup chopped fruit (mango, strawberry, pineapple)
- 1 cup yogurt or coconut cream
- 1/2 cup condensed milk (or honey to taste)
- 1/2 tsp vanilla extract
To make:
- Blend half the fruit with yogurt, condensed milk, and vanilla.
- Stir in the rest of the fruit for texture.
- Pour into popsicle molds.
- Insert sticks and freeze 6 hours or overnight.
- To release, run mold under warm water.
Helpful tip: Layer in extra chunks or swirl for the classic “fruta stick” vibe. Try oat milk for a dairy-free version!
Chapter 6 – The Night We Stole the Ocean
Summers in Long Beach were defined by small adventures. We’d visit the Jetty pier and search for crabs, scooping them into makeshift buckets. My mom would pickle them in fish sauce, turning those salty creatures into something craveable. And then there was the night of the grunion run.
How a moonlit grunion run taught us about survival, family, and rule-breaking joy
Some families have summer vacations.
We had grunion season.
It was always late at night—way past bedtime. The kind of darkness that made everything feel slightly illegal, even if it wasn’t. But this night? Oh, this one was definitely on the illegal side of things.
“We’re going to the beach,” my mom said, whispering like we were about to rob a bank.
“But it’s dark!” I whispered back.
“That’s the point,” she grinned.
We packed up flashlights, plastic buckets, and old sneakers. No beach towels, no snacks, no sunscreen—this wasn’t that kind of trip. This was the grunion run.
If you don’t know grunions, they’re these small silver fish that ride the waves onto the shore during high tide to lay their eggs right in the sand. It only happens a few times a year, during specific tides and moon phases—like a secret meeting between fish and stars.
And that night, we were ready to crash the party.
By the time we got to the shoreline in Long Beach, there were already pockets of people scattered in the dark, flashlights flickering like fireflies. Silent nods were exchanged—everyone pretending not to see each other but knowing exactly why they were there.
It was after 9 p.m.—well past the legal fishing hours.
We weren’t supposed to be out there.
But the tide was high, the moon was right, and the fish were running.
At first, I couldn’t see them. I just felt the slip under my feet—wet, cold, and alive.
And then: chaos.
Grunions everywhere. Squirming in the sand. Wiggling between toes. Glinting silver in the moonlight like spilled treasure.
“Grab them!” my mom hissed, shoving a bucket at me.
My hands fumbled like I was touching ghosts. Slippery, slimy, fast-moving ghosts.
We were laughing, squealing, slipping all over the sand as the fish flopped in every direction. My siblings and I moved like thieves—careful, frantic, exhilarated.
We weren’t just catching dinner—we were catching magic.
And even though part of me was afraid—of getting caught, of the ocean swallowing me whole—I remember the feeling: this was ours. This night. This ocean. This moment of rebellion turned into ritual.
When we got home, we didn’t even cook them right away. My mom cleaned them, stored them in salt, and later used them in broths and soups—stretching that one wild night into weeks of nourishment. It was her way: nothing wasted. Everything transformed.
Looking back, that night wasn’t just about stealing fish from the waves.
It was about reclaiming something.
About reminding ourselves that even in a world that often made us feel small and out of place—we still knew how to provide, how to survive, how to laugh with the sand under our nails and the moon above our heads.
Recipe: Pickled Saltwater Crabs
You’ll need:
- 2 cups small cleaned crabs
- 1/2 cup fish sauce
- 2 tbsp palm sugar
- 2 cloves garlic, minced
- 2 Thai chilies, chopped (optional)
To make:
- In a bowl, mix fish sauce, palm sugar, garlic, and chilies.
- Place cleaned crabs in a jar and pour the mixture over them.
- Seal and refrigerate for 2–3 days before serving.
Chapter 7 – You Don’t Want This (Or So I Thought)
How a customer’s curiosity and my aunt’s cooking made me see our food in a new light
When I was younger, I didn’t think much of the food we ate at home—or in the back of my aunt’s donut shop. It was just food. Strong smells. Funky sauces. Lots of vegetables and fish. Nothing fancy. Nothing I thought anyone outside our family would care about.
At lunchtime, between donut runs and takeout orders, we’d sit down in the back and eat whatever was in the pot. My aunt always made the food. She’d get up early, chop whatever vegetables were starting to go soft in the fridge, and make something out of almost nothing.
That day, she made what I’d later come to call our Cambodian ratatouille—a bubbling stew of eggplant, green beans, tomatoes, and whatever else she had on hand. She flavored it with prahok, fish sauce, and tamarind, simmered until everything was soft and rich and perfectly unphotogenic.
We gathered around, spooning it over rice and eating fast before the lunch rush returned.
Then one of the customers came by.
He looked past the counter, spotted our bowls, and asked:
“What’s that? It smells good.”
I looked down at my bowl and said, instinctively,
“Oh… you don’t want this. It’s just our food.”
He raised his eyebrow.
“How do you know I wouldn’t like it?”
I didn’t have a good answer.
Because the truth is—I had just assumed.
That it was too weird. Too fishy. Too Cambodian.
That no one outside our circle would understand the flavors we grew up on.
But maybe I was wrong.
Maybe we were all wrong when we told ourselves our food wasn’t worth sharing.
That stew, the one my aunt made without a recipe and with no real fanfare, was everything I didn’t appreciate as a kid. It was resourceful. Comforting. Complex.
It was the kind of food that held you through struggle and joy and Monday afternoons at the back of a donut shop.
And now? It’s the food I crave when I want to remember who I am.
Recipe: Auntie’s Cambodian Ratatouille
You’ll need:
- 1 eggplant, cubed
- 1 cup green beans, trimmed
- 2 tomatoes, chopped
- 2 garlic cloves, minced
- 1 tbsp fermented fish paste
- 1 tbsp oil
- 1/2 cup water
To make:
- Heat oil in a pot over medium heat.
- Add garlic and sauté until golden.
- Stir in eggplant and green beans.
- Add tomatoes and fermented fish paste.
- Pour in water, stir, and cover.
- Simmer for 10–15 minutes, until veggies are tender.
- Adjust salt to taste.
- Serve hot with jasmine rice.
One of my clearest memories was egg roll day.
Everyone chipped in. We’d spend a whole day frying up ground pork, then hand-shredding piles of cabbage, carrots, celery, onions, and garlic—seasoning it all to taste with just salt and pepper. It was a big, messy, delicious job. The next day, we’d return to turn the chaos into order: an assembly line to roll the egg rolls, one by one, into neat little packages using wonton wrappers.
I was only eight, and my skills were… well, let’s say “developing.” But after rolling 200+ egg rolls, my hands were sore, and my technique was sharp. I could practically do it with my eyes closed.
At the end of it all, the fryer came to life with a loud sizzle, and the smell of freshly fried egg rolls filled the shop. That moment—that sound and smell—was pure satisfaction. Not just because they were delicious, but because we had made them together.
It was teamwork. It was summer. And it stuck with me.
Crispy Chinese Egg Rolls (Just Like Summer Breaks at the Donut Shop)
These egg rolls are packed with savory ground pork, crunchy vegetables, and the kind of teamwork memories you can taste. Fry them fresh or freeze for a quick snack anytime.
You’ll Need:
- 1 lb ground pork
- 2 cups green cabbage, finely shredded
- 1 cup carrots, julienned or shredded
- ½ cup celery, thinly sliced
- ½ cup yellow onion, finely chopped
- 2 garlic cloves, minced
- 1 tsp salt (to taste)
- ½ tsp black pepper
- 1 tsp sugar (optional, for balance)
- 1 tbsp soy sauce
- 1 tsp sesame oil (optional for aroma)
- 20–25 egg roll or spring roll wrappers
- 1 egg, beaten (for sealing)
- Oil for deep frying
To Make:
- Cook the Filling:
In a large pan or wok over medium-high heat, brown the ground pork until cooked through. Drain excess fat if needed.
Add the onion, garlic, cabbage, carrots, and celery. Stir-fry until veggies are softened but still a little crisp—about 4–5 minutes.
Season with salt, pepper, soy sauce, sesame oil, and sugar if using. Let the mixture cool completely before wrapping. - Assemble the Rolls:
Lay a wrapper with a corner pointing toward you (like a diamond). Place 2–3 tablespoons of filling near the center.
Fold the bottom corner over the filling, then fold in the sides. Roll tightly toward the top corner. Brush the top corner with beaten egg to seal.
Repeat until the filling is gone (or your fingers go numb like your 8-year-old self’s did!). - Freeze or Fry:
- To freeze: Place rolls in a single layer on a baking sheet, freeze until solid, then transfer to a bag or container for storage.
- To fry: Heat oil to 350°F (175°C). Fry egg rolls a few at a time until golden brown and crisp, about 3–5 minutes. Drain on paper towels.
Chapter 8 – Where Roots Meet Ritual
How mashed leaves, childhood play, and neighborly kindness shaped an herbal life
Before I ever called myself an herbalist, I was just a kid playing pretend.
In the middle of summer, under the hum of fans and the smell of dinner wafting from the kitchen, I’d mash up whatever green plants I could find. I’d rub them between my fingers until they turned to pulp, then scoop them into bottle caps or old jar lids.
That was my medicine.
My brother or sister would pretend to be sick, and I’d press the little poultice onto their skin and whisper, “Get well soon.” Sometimes I meant it more than I let on.
At the time, it didn’t feel like herbalism. It felt like play. But now I see it: the instinct to heal, to touch, to offer care—it was always there, tucked in like a seed waiting for the right season.
We lived in a community complex—twelve units, seven facing seven. A patchwork of laborers and families came and went every few years, but for a time, there were a handful of kids my age. We played hide-and-seek in the cracked alleys, traded toys like treasure, and picked up trash for the landlady in exchange for candy.
I remember fall the most—that crisp, golden air and the way the red brick steps turned slippery with dust. One game of hide-and-seek ended with me slipping and gashing my chin open on the cement. We didn’t have the money for urgent care, so my neighbor stepped in with what she had: a tincture-soaked cotton ball and a firm hand. The bleeding stopped, and something else began.
That moment was my first brush with traditional medicine—not from a book or a clinic, but from the hands of someone who cared. It stayed with me: the scent of the herb, the sting of alcohol, the gentle hush of a neighbor saying, “You’ll be okay.”
Remedy: Neighbor’s Touch First Aid Tincture
A simple herbal tincture for cuts, inspired by early instincts and shared care
You’ll need:
- 1 tbsp dried Yarrow – to stop bleeding
- 1 tbsp dried Calendula – to soothe skin
- 1 tsp dried Plantain leaf – to draw out dirt and prevent infection
- 4 oz high-proof alcohol (vodka or grain alcohol)
- A small glass jar with lid
- Cotton balls or gauze
To make:
- Place dried herbs in your jar and pour alcohol to cover.
- Seal and store in a cool, dark place for 2–4 weeks, shaking daily.
- Strain into a clean bottle and label it.
To use:
Clean the wound with water. Dab tincture on a cotton ball and apply to the area. Let air dry or cover loosely with clean gauze.
Chapter 9 – The Sweet Tooth Sister
My older sister was the first to try to fill the parenting gap when our parents were working long hours sewing clothes. But trusting her in the kitchen was…a gamble. There was the infamous spaghetti incident—she dumped raw ground beef directly into a cold jar of tomato sauce, stirred it around, and served it up like it was gourmet. We all got sick that day. My brother, dramatic as ever, shouted, “She’s trying to kill me!” From then on, we stuck to boiling eggs or making instant noodles until someone more qualified came home.
But what she lacked in savory technique, she made up for in sweets. She had a serious sweet tooth. I remember how she’d light up over pearl desserts—those icy, syrupy Cambodian-style sweets with chewy tapioca balls and coconut cream. They were her comfort and pride. She’d experiment with flavors like banana, jackfruit, or mung bean, trying to get the ratios just right. Maybe her savory dishes were cursed, but her desserts always brought smiles.
Recipe: Real Spaghetti with Meat Sauce
You’ll need:
- 1 lb ground beef
- 1 tbsp olive oil
- 1 small onion, diced
- 2–3 garlic cloves, minced
- 1 jar (24 oz) marinara sauce
- 1 tsp dried oregano
- Salt and pepper to taste
- 12 oz spaghetti
- Grated Parmesan, fresh basil (optional)
To make:
- Heat olive oil in a skillet, sauté onion until translucent.
- Add garlic and stir for 1 minute.
- Add ground beef and brown thoroughly.
- Drain excess fat and add marinara sauce.
- Season with oregano, salt, and pepper.
- Simmer on low for 15–20 minutes.
- Cook spaghetti according to package instructions.
- Serve sauce over pasta. Top with cheese and basil.
Recipe: Cambodian Pearl Dessert (Boh Bae)
You’ll need:
- 1/2 cup small tapioca pearls
- 2 cups water
- 1 can coconut milk (13.5 oz)
- 1/4 cup sugar (adjust to taste)
- Pinch of salt
- 1/2 cup ripe banana or jackfruit, thinly sliced (optional)
To make:
- Soak tapioca pearls in water for 30 minutes, then drain.
- In a pot, bring 2 cups of water to a boil. Add soaked pearls.
- Simmer for 10–15 minutes, stirring often, until pearls turn translucent.
- Add coconut milk, sugar, and salt. Stir well.
- Simmer for another 5 minutes, then add banana or jackfruit if using.
- Serve warm or chilled.
How it’s helpful:
This dessert may not be a health food, but it’s soul food. It brings joy, cools the spirit, and reminds us of the sweetness that can come after even the most questionable meals.
Ending: What We Carried
What we carried wasn’t just food or memories—it was the strength to start again, the flavor of homes we lost and rebuilt, the rituals we formed when time finally allowed us to breathe. We carried the scent of garlic sizzling in oil, the sound of fish sauce bubbling in a pan, the sweet sting of being laughed at for ‘weird food,’ and the warmth of realizing one day that our food was never weird—just misunderstood.
We carried guilt and grit, shame and pride, confusion and clarity. But through it all, we learned to trust our hands—to cook, to create, to heal. We planted gardens in unlikely places. We made poultices out of weeds and magic out of leftovers. And along the way, we stitched together a story worth remembering.
This isn’t just a book about food. It’s about returning to the parts of ourselves that were once tucked away for safety. It’s about laughter in tiny kitchens, daring grunion runs, failed spaghetti, and popsicles that tasted like hope.
We carried all of it—and now we pass it on.
Think back to the meals you grew up with—burnt rice, perfectly folded dumplings, noodle soup made from scraps, or that one dish everyone pretended to like.
What stories lived inside those flavors?
What lessons were tucked between bites, even if the food wasn’t “perfect”?
Was it resourcefulness? Patience? The art of making do?
Or maybe just this: that love doesn’t always taste like a restaurant meal—sometimes it tastes like trying your best with what you have.
Take a moment to write it down. Or better yet—cook it.