My father is the one to cook for my family. He cooks all sorts of foods, primarily delicious chinese dishes. One of his best recipes is his handmade steamed dumplings. My mother isn’t as skilled at cooking, proved when she accidentally burnt the oatmeal. Since she comes home late from work on regular days, the job is left to my father. But this week was different. My father was going on a business trip to New York City for a week.

“Are you sure you’ll be okay?” he asked worriedly. I could tell he was nervous about my mother cooking.

“We’ll be fine, daddy. You be safe, and make sure to call us. Love you!” I replied confidently.

“Just to make sure you have food, I brought some microwavable food from Chinese school. You can eat some of that if there’s no food,” he said with a concerned look on his face.

“Don’t worry about us. Bye, I love you,” I reassured him.

He shrugs and leaves, saying his last goodbyes.

That Monday, the first day he was gone, was a night to remember. My mother worked at home so she could take care of my sister Emily and me. After I came home on the bus, I minded my own business, starting my homework. Around 5:00 pm, my mother told me to cook the rice.

“But mo-o-m, I have homework to do and I have to practice piano too!” I complained, “Daddy always cooks the rice himself. He doesn’t need my help.”

My mother, with clenched fists, whined back at me mockingly, “I am not your dad! And I am working right now! You go cook the rice, five minutes isn’t going to take much time out of your “busy” schedule.”

“Fine, then.” I huffed angrily, and trudged off to do the extra chore, washing the rice and placing it into the rice cooker. I admit, I felt a bit rude arguing about such a petty thing, but I dismissed this feeling.

Half an hour later, my mother called me again to peel the beans for our dinner. “Again?” I moan, instantly falling into a worse mood.

“I need help, Margaret,” she reasoned.

Of course I helped, being forced to, but I was not happy whatsoever. “Why is it only mommy that makes me do these things?” I thought to myself as I fiercely rip open the beans. “I still have to do all my homework, and I have a final to study for, too,” I muttered angrily.

After I finally finished peeling the beans, I go back to my own homework. I realized that it wasn’t taking as long as I expected, contradictory to what I had told my mother. Another half an hour later, dinner is put on the table.

“Dinner is ready, girls!” my mother calls.

I rush to the kitchen table and stop in my tracks. I stare at the three foods on the table, none of which look very appealing. The first dish was pre-made curry from Costco, which just needed to be heated up in the matter of minutes. The curry was a disgusting mud-orange color with chunks of meat floating around a sea of vegetables. The smell of strange spices filled the air, making me wince. The second dish were the beans I had peeled. They were covered in a sort of slime, with a deep purple color on the bottom. I could only imagine the squelching sound they would make when I ate them. Even the rice I had cooked looked foul. It was way too dry, like fish food in a can.

“Ewww, mommy this doesn’t look good. I don’t like any of this,” Emily groaned. This is what snapped me out of my disgraceful mood. I studied my mother, bringing silverware to the table, and noticed the stiff lines on her face. They were all from the stress of taking care of Emily and me, and the hard, long hours she had to put in at work. I felt so ashamed about how rude I was before, not eager to help my mother with anything. I abruptly stood up and hugged her.

“I love you mommy. I’m sorry about how moody I was earlier,” I said shamefacedly.

Looking confused, my mother replied, “I love you too, Margaret.”

And I did eat the food. Honestly, it didn’t taste completely terrible. For the rest of dinner, I talked animatedly about school, and asked my mother about her work. I even offered to wash the dishes after the meal, feeling as if I owed her for my ungrateful thoughts. I couldn’t change her cooking, but I could change my feelings toward it.