Growing up with my mom, forks usually became a second-hand utensil. Our beautiful house was adorned with objects representing our extensive history before she moved to Las Vegas. She would teach me how to wrap my little hands around the gigantic chopsticks correctly. Although I had to use a band to guarantee I could actually grab my food, my brother and I would have competitions on who can pick up the heaviest objects with their chopsticks, always resulting in our parents scolding us for playing with the napkin holder. If they let me, I would’ve won. As time passed, I remember watching the pile of chopsticks grow in the silverware drawer ranging from wooden ones we would keep from takeout to intricate metal ones she was gifted.When I started to spend more time with my mom, I noticed how she used chopsticks for everything while she cooked, traveling around the kitchen with the same item in hand. I never watched her pick up the intended utensils that my dad frequently relied on. Watching her left me in awe as to how she can accomplish an awful lot with a few tools. To me, my mom was a genius. I tried formidably to follow her lead when she started teaching me to cook, but I was never able to replicate the skill she had, often dropping the quesadilla in the pan or leaving half mixed eggs in the bowl. But she gave me a smile still ingrained in my mind and told me “good job” before guiding my hand with hers. Pride often filled my chest when we shared moments like this.

– Cai McCarthy

Relationship:  Grandchild of im/migrant Grandchild of im/migrant