Food for Seniors

I’ve become head chef of the Hom household, which means I cook every dinner. Every single one. I know my parents survived before I showed up, but part of me wonders how. They must have struggled with it, because it’s a freedom they give up with no resistance.

Cooking for the elderly comes with a certain set of restrictions, which has naturally changed my own eating habits. Salt, sugar, oil, fat, all the things that make the world right, are sacrificed to the boring altars of fiber, vitamins, and nutrition. Most things that are necessary are also the least interesting, perhaps simply by definition.

This planet is full of other non-life-threatening spices though, and I have a secret stash made up of names my parents don’t recognize or haven’t tasted in years, if ever.

“What did you put on this?” my mom asks, scanning the three dishes in front of her.

“Ore-GAH-no,” I say, making sure to emphasize the syllable as the British do. I never said my spice stash was fancy.

Most of our dinners have three parts. There’s a protein, usually one my parents have weirdly stocked in their freezer, because my mom has to buy everything that’s on sale, and there’s always a sale somewhere. Add in some vegetable, some rice, and we have ourselves a meal fit for an aging family. Tonight, it’s baked salmon, steamed broccoli, and some rice. Boring, but effective. And most importantly, eating at home with these three revolving dishes, it’s a controlled and understood situation. I know exactly what’s going to happen.

Eating becomes a bit more of an endeavor when I take my parents out, which we sometimes do for lunch. My parents don’t seem to eat lunch very often, and if they do, it’s something small like a banana. Or in my dad’s case, one of those frozen cheeseburgers you can buy in bulk from Costco, which is one of those meals I’d be glad sacrifice away to any altar. I’m not cool with him getting what they say is fifty percent of his saturated fat in four bites, and he doesn’t even need two thousand calories a day.

So as a treat, I take my parents one afternoon to eat dim sum, which is something we used to do when I came back from Seattle to visit. This puts me in a weird mental time warp, making me think that maybe this is just one of my trips and I’ll be going back to Seattle in a couple short days. I know that’s not true—I’m not going back to Seattle—but I don’t think it’s hit me yet.

“What kind of tea would you like?” the waiters ask as we walk to our table.

Normally, I let my mom pick. And it’d turn into this long, one-minute “what kind of tea do you like, no which kind of tea do you like, I don’t really care, how about you pick,” kind of debate which I’m not interested in having today.

So I just answer for them. We always end up getting the same thing anyway. “Guk boh,” I say, a combination of chrysanthemum and pu’erh which I’ve weirdly grown to like.

I’ve learned to become hyper decisive with my folks. I instruct my dad to sit on the inside of the table, away from anyone who might accidentally run into him and cause him to yell. I immediately order char siu bao1, which is my dad’s favourite, and I place it in front of him so he can reach it. Next up is sin juk guen2, which is my mom’s favourite, so I order it and place it in front of her. Because if she can’t reach it, my dad will complain.

My parents can be unpredictable, especially my dad. He’s a walking box of a thousand variables and I’m learning to control for each and every one of them. I don’t like playing risk management, but it’s either that or risk my sanity. And so I play by a set of rules when I’m out with my parents. I minimize the potential for any incident where I might need to calm my dad down or ask him to relax, which he’ll interpret as disapproval. I’m also careful about speaking loudly, which he’ll interpret as me negatively raising my voice—even though he’s hard of hearing, which makes him defensive and upset. It’s one of the weirdest tightropes to walk and I’m constantly learning how not to fall off.

Like when we finish our food, he casually tosses two twenty-dollar bills on the table before the check has even arrived. Forty bucks is enough to cover the meal for sure, but it also means he’s planning on leaving a one-dollar tip.

We used to argue about this. I told him that it wasn’t fair, and that it’s expected to give about fifteen percent, but what he heard instead was probably something extreme and along the lines of me calling him a shit parent.

“Can I pay? I want the credit card points,” I say with a giant smile. I do actually want the credit card points, so I’m honest. But that’s not why I don’t want him to pay, so it’s also a lie. I also want to protect the wages of the good people who wait tables here, while also protecting my dad’s emotional state.

In the end, my dad takes his cash and folds it back into his wallet. It’s my moral compass that pays the price, and I think I’m okay with it.

On the days they do want to eat lunch, my parents have been going to what they like to call “senior lunch.” That’s not the actual name, but that’s basically what it is. A senior center in neighboring Pleasant Hill serves lunch every weekday at a discount, charging my parents two bucks for a full meal with other like minded individuals.

“Do you want to come with us?” my mom asks me one evening.

“What’s on the menu?”

She hunches over to check a piece of paper taped to the pantry.

“Meatloaf.”

I’ve never loved meatloaf, and I can imagine meatloaf made en masse, designed around senior citizens, and the only thing getting excited is my sense of sarcasm. Yum.

I load up Google Maps the next day and I’m ready to go. But my dad has always hated any GPS other than his own brain, and so he gives me turn-by-turn directions, including some very gruff hand gestures. He lifts his hand, pointing either left or right, and sharply jerks it in that direction. I wonder if it hurts his wrists to do that.

I find myself getting angry since he’s telling me what to do even though I already know how to get there. But I take several deep breaths and silently tell myself to ignore him. He needs to feel like he has some amount of control.

“Thank you for telling me how to get here,” I grimace once we arrive, searching for every ounce of willpower in my body. This sort of redirection is becoming second nature, but it doesn’t take any less energy, and I’m starting to wonder how much more of my mind I can devote to doing this.

The senior center like a nicer version of a high-school multi-purpose building. There’s some carpet lining the entrance, but the main dining area looks a little like a school gym with those round plastic-like tables. I notice a few of those rotating card holders, each with information on assisted-living centers and registrations for certain activities. I snap a few pictures, ideas for a future day, and send them to my brother.

We get in line to sign in for our meal tickets, and I start to feel uncomfortable and I quickly put my finger on why: I don’t know this place, or how the lunch works, and I have no idea how my dad will react to any of these variables. When he’s obnoxious to my mom, me, or other family members, I can deflect that. I care much more that he might become antagonistic to strangers and get himself kicked out.

“Is this your grandson?” the lady at the front asks my mom.

Sigh. Yes, my parents had me late. Yes, I look young for my age.

“No. He’s my son,” my mom says.

“Oh! You're under sixty. Well under. You don't get the discount.”

I smile. What else can I do?

We take our seats at a table and my parents carry a sign that says 'Please Serve Me.' I, instead, get a little index card that says something like ‘Normal Meal’ on it. Nobody’s serving me and I have to go up to the counter to grab my own meal. How unfair.

Each table has a sign detailing the three goals of the cafe: To provide nutritious meals to seniors; To provide a social outlet for everyone; To provide a warm and welcoming atmosphere for everyone.

I think about my dad and wonder how he fits into all this.

Three Cantonese-speaking people join us at the same table. There are plenty of other seats, and I wonder if they heard my mom and me speaking and chose our table on purpose. If they did, they didn’t do it because they actually want to talk to us, and my parents seem to have no interest in striking up conversation with them either.

Eventually, food is served. There’s soup, iceberg lettuce, some steamed broccoli, brown rice, and some beans or beef thing hidden underneath the rice. I poke at it and realize, oh, it’s the meatloaf.

I know it’s mean, but the only difference between this and high-school cafeteria food is that one comes on a solid paper plate, and the other a clumsy styrofoam tray. Suddenly my toned down cooking seems three-Michelin star worthy in comparison. I know they’re doing the best with what they’ve got, and to be honest, when it comes to serving almost fifty-or-so seniors, can I actually do any better?

My parents eat in silence. I ask them how the food is, and they say “fine,” and we’re back to silence. I turn to people watching, particularly the three other Cantonese-speaking people at the table.

They’re complaining about how spicy the soup is. Oh it’s so spicy. Why’s it so spicy? What the hell were they thinking, making it so spicy. All I can do is laugh, because of course anyone who’s Cantonese (which is most of my blood heritage) can’t take spicy food. I’m actually surprised my parents haven’t started complaining.

My mom gets up to pour some coffee and I’m immediately on alert. I watch her grab a small cup, press a valve on the coffee maker, and slowly walk back. I study every movement, waiting for something to go off the rails. Her hands continue to shake violently, a symptom of either the worsening genetic essential tremor that she lovingly passed on to me, or perhaps a side effect of her cocktail of prescription drugs for her depression and anxiety. Suddenly I see coffee spilling over the sides and splashing to the floor.

I jump out of my seat and snatch the coffee cup from her hands. The liquid is not quite scalding, but it’s hot, even for me, and I wonder if it’s been painful for her. She grabs a few napkins, and I reach to take them from her.

“I’ll do it—” I start to say and immediately cut myself off.

I leave some of the napkins with her, and we clean the mess together. Maybe my parents need to believe they have some agency of their own life. Even if it’s false.

We sit back down, and I turn to people watching my own parents. I experience a wave of sadness; I’m not sure for who. Them, or myself.

On our way out, my mom asks to go to the bathroom, and so it’s just me and my dad.

"Do you like coming here?” I ask my dad. He nods back at me. “What do you like about it?”

He mumbles, as if his brain has literal wheels turning while he thinks. “It gives me a sense of human communi-tteee,” he says for emphasis. “Many people want it but don’t get it. To me that’s very important.”

He’s given me this answer before, particularly about why he likes to go to church, and I’m sure he doesn’t actually like going.

My mom once told me that old Chinese men like to wake up in the morning and sit in a park and drink tea, maybe because they like to be around people even if they don’t talk to them. Sounds just like my dad.

“Someone just told me you’re very handsome,” my mom startles me. I didn’t realize she had come back.

“Oh,” I mumble, trying to figure out if I should play this as a joke, or entertain it at all. I opt for the joke. “See? You have a handsome son.”

“That’s because you have a handsome dad.”

I chuckle. It’s true, it’s not like I have anything to do with my looks anyway, good or bad.

My phone buzzes. It’s a friend inviting me out to grab coffee and get some work done. I want to get out, need to get out, but my parents live far from most of the main cities in the Bay Area. I try to do the math in my head, and realize due to traffic, distance, and the fact that I didn’t plan for this in advance and so didn’t prepare any dinner, I’d get about two hours of actual face time with my friends. If I’m lucky.

Sorry, I text back, I don’t think I can make it out. Next time?

I realize I’m going to have to make it more of a priority to make time for me to be able to go out. I’ve been back for about a week and I’m already starting to feel an absence of social life weigh on me. Senior lunch just doesn’t quite cut it for me.

Seattle momentarily crosses my mind, and I experience a pang of feeling. I’ve thought a lot about Seattle, and every time I want to tear up, but I never do. Right now though, I get close, and I can feel my eyes get a little watery.

I decide one day, to try cooking them lunch at home. It takes more effort from me, but it’s a hell of a lot easier on me mentally. No random variables, no unknown external forces, no games. Or so I think.

I take the chance to play with my new toy: a sous vide machine, one of those you can stick into any pot and turn it into a circulating water bath. I bought it since I figured that if I’m going to be cooking all the time, I might as well revive it as a hobby. I can’t put my life on hold, and I have to keep pursuing my own interests.

My mom objects immediately the moment I pull out a ziploc bag.

“It’s not healthy,” she says, sort of whining.

I’ve done as much research as I can about water baths and plastic, and I try to explain that the water never gets too hot. Who knows, maybe the research is inconclusive or wrong altogether. But I’m not alone in trying to cook this way, and if we’re all gonna die, at least it won’t be from chewing on fiber and en masse meatloaf.

She eventually tries another tactic. “It’s too troublesome. It takes too long”

“Well you’re not cooking so it doesn’t matter, right?” I grin back.

My mom continues to just stand there, watching me chop veggies and toss a salad together. I notice her hands, and her jaw uncontrollably bounce back and forth. I try to imagine her cooking with her hands on the brink of being out of control, and this is probably why she is so willing to let me do all the cooking. Eventually, she pipes up.

“Whoever marries you is going to be a lucky girl,” she both smiles and sighs, maybe longingly.

She has long joked about when I’m going to get married, and all jokes have some truth, and pain, to them. Something in me stirs, and I wonder if I should press the matter or not, and ultimately I decide to go for it.

“What if it’s not a girl?” I don’t stop chopping and mixing.

She looks at me dumbfounded. “If it’s not a girl, what is it then?”

Regret floods my brain. State of emergency. Damage control mode. I saw the storm coming and decided to go headfirst into it.

We’ve already had this discussion. Several times. She’s forgotten my answer and we’re stuck playing games of groundhog day. And like discussing the nuances of whether I want to go to church and the potential health effects of cooking sous vide, I’m really not interested in discussing who I want to marry.

So I joke back.

“Nobody. No girlfriend, no boyfriend.”

“Of course. That’s because you’re terrible and nobody will want you.”

I laugh. Because she’s been using that line for decades and it’s one-hundred percent a joke. I also exhale a huge breath of relief. Crisis averted.

"Lunch’s ready.”

I’ve made them a salad, toast, chicken sausage, and a side of sous vide scrambled eggs which are like butter heaven. They taste amazing on toast, but aren’t very substantial on their own.

“Wow!” my dad says as he flounders towards the table. “Looks delicious!”

“What kind of vegetable is this?” my mom asks, poking at the salad.

“Kale,” I say, and instantly feel a part of me die. The pacific northwest has definitely changed me.

“I’ve never had it,” she says, and I’m not sure whether to be proud or dismayed about introducing it to them. At least it fits the nutrition bill, and she seems to enjoy it. "We never have lunch like this, right John?" she looks at my dad.

He nods his head. "I never worry about going hungry when Daniel is home."

My heart both melts, and sinks. Other than getting a kick out of watching my parents enjoy food, his comment doesn’t mean very much to me. His compliments never have. I know that’s harsh, but it’s also the reality.

But as I think about the cooking I’ve done, the times I’ve taken them out to eat, all the navigating their weird mental state and building a map of what their life looks like, there’s a worry that starts budding in my chest.

What happens when Daniel isn’t home anymore?

1 BBQ Pork Buns. Savory, tangy pork wrapped in a white, fluffy bun. I actually love these, but my dad can eat three on his own and hates most other things. So I let him have all of it. Jerk.
2 Fried Beancurd Roll. Random goodies wrapped in beancurd, fried, and drenched in gravy. I asked my mom to explain what she likes about this so much but she doesn’t know.