7
I thought I would argue with Mom for the rest
of my days.
After all, she was proud, and I hadn’t
apvivyizeu.
But then, one evening when the temperature
dropped, Mom talked to me.
“Your dad is going to the grocery store. What
do you want to eat? I’ll have him get it.”
I was shocked.
Before I could react, Mom was impatient.
“Eat it or don’t. I don’t have time to watch you
stare!”
That night…
Mom went into the kitchen and made chicken
paprikash, my favorite.
く
Dad glanced at me and said, “This cost $50.
A restaurant would charge over a hundred for
it.”
The smell of paprika choked me.
The tickling in my throat came back, straight
to my lungs.
I covered my nose and coughed.
“Clang!”
Mom slammed her silverware down.
“Who are you trying to fool?”
“Eat it or don’t. I don’t care!”
<
Dad calmed Mom and then put a big piece of
chicken on my plate.
“Don’t you like paprika? Your mom made it
for you. Try it.”
I didn’t like paprika.
When I was a kid, I lived with my aunt and
uncle.
The school only served rice for lunch.
I had to bring my own side dishes or buy
them in the cafeteria.
My aunt only packed lunch for Jenny and I
didn’t have any money, so I could only scoop
half a spoonful of chili sauce into the lunch.
box and mix it with rice for lunch.
く
Chili sauce was so salty and spicy but it was
better than nothing.
I would always eat rice first, and then dip it
into the chili sauce.
I always saved the chili peppers for last.
I was so burnt at that time that I had to sit in
the toilet for half an hour after school, crying
from pain.
Later, my aunt hid the chili sauce too.
I started rummaging through the garbage
cans, picking up instant noodle seasoning
packets that the students threw away.
I could mix the powder packets with rice, and
sometimes I could find a whole sauce packet.
The sauce packet was delicious and it melted
as soon as it touched the hot rice.
It tasted good and sometimes I could even
eat meat.
I could eat a whole box of rice with half a
packet.
I was sick of it after a few years.
I never ate paprika again.
But Jenny liked it.
Chicken paprikash was Jenny’s favorite.
Mom would make it for us whenever Jenny
and I came home.
“I don’t like paprika,” I said.
“And my throat hurts.”
Dad was mad.
“It won’t kill you to eat a piece. Drink water
later. Your mom cooked it for you. Don’t hurt
her feelings.”
Mom sneered.
“You always say I have favorites. I make the
same dish. Jenny eats it. You don’t. So, who’s
the favorite here?”
“Some people don’t appreciate anything.”
Before Mom could finish, I grabbed the
chicken and nut it in my mouth
chicken and put it in my mouth.
The paprika hit my nose.
I trembled to hold back my cough.
The food was like a burning blade scraping
my throat, and I coughed.
This time, it was worse than before.
I wanted to cough my lungs out.
My palm was filled with blood.
Mom screamed.
“That’s disgusting!”
“Get away from me! I can’t eat with that!”
See, Mom?
You hate me.
