The sky glittered above, a blue canvas sprinkled with glittering stars Tears filled my eyes as I stared back at my mother. I turned and fled out the door, not caring that it was the middle of the night. The yard was filled with deep shadows, and leaves crackled beneath my feet as I ran over the open expanse of tufty grass and into the forest beyond. I somehow found my way to the shed, sagging wearily in its sheltering copse. Despite its bad condition, it had a fresh new lock on the tightly sealed doors, like a sheet of fresh paint over rotten wood. But I didn’t want to get into the shed: I wanted to get onto it. I grabbed the branch just above my head, well worn from years of use. Hauling myself up onto the familiar knot in the tree, I sidestepped onto the bottom half of the roof of the shed and then scrambled up onto the very top, shingles sliding underneath my soft hands. Brushing aside dry leaves and twigs, I sat down, legs dangling over the edge, and looked up. The sky glittered above, a blue canvas sprinkled with glittering stars. The thin sliver of a moon cast pale moonbeams onto the quiet nighttime forest, dappling the ground with silver puddles of moonlight. My breath puffed out in a white cloud; it was cold, but I didn’t mind. Crossing my arms, my gaze shifted downward, and I gazed out over the rest of the forest, tall, green-needled pines stretching up higher than I cared to look. The tears escaped my dark brown eyes, and I felt them slide silently down my cheeks. I hugged my knees to my chest and gritted my teeth, my face contorting in pain. More tears flooded out, and my lower lip quivered. I let my long brown hair fall into my face; it tickled my cheek and brought back memories of when my mother’s hair would just brush my face as she bent down to embrace me. We had had yet another fight. I knew friction between my mom and me was to be expected as I grew up, but it wasn’t supposed to be like this, was it? I closed my eyes and pulled my knees in closer. My mother was an important figure in my life. She stood six feet tall, solid and muscular like a female football player, with short, curly brown hair and brown eyes. When she smiled, it felt like she could light up the whole world, but when she was angry, even the bravest cowered before her. And recently, we had begun fighting horrifically. It usually happened late at night, after dinner, when we would start discussing school and soccer and other such things. Today had been about my lack of physical fitness. To give her credit, I wasn’t the fittest eighth-grader there ever was, but in my defense the past few years had been a struggle. I had broken both ankles, dislocated and broken my shoulder, broken my femur, popped my knee out of place, broken my index finger, injured my wrist, and had a bone contusion on the back of my femur, all within the last four years. Despite multiple sessions of physical therapy, I was having great difficulty returning to my previous physical state. Slap eighth-grade tests, quizzes, and homework on top of that, and I didn’t exactly have the time or energy to work out, either. None of that mattered to my mother. She wanted me fit, and she wanted me to attend a run-a-mile-a-day fitness program at my school, which I was definitely not up to in my current physical state. It had led to a yelling match on both sides, with my dad’s eyes nervously flitting back and forth between us like a bystander watching a tennis match. Eventually, my mother, as always, in her higher mindset and household superiority, had beaten me down to nearly nothing, and I had fled the scene before greater damage could be done. Now, sobbing silently in the still winter air, head throbbing from my tears, I wished bitterly for anything that could make my mother love me. Deep down, I knew that she did, but right now my heart was broken by her harsh words, and I wanted something, anything, to hold onto—including a dream of her never yelling at me again. I longed for the comfort and solitude of writing, although I had nothing to write on or with. So, in my head, I asked myself: What would my book character (currently named Aspen Simber) do in this situation? I turned the question over and over in my mind, inspecting it and testing it. I had tried to make Aspen realistic, so she would cry, of course, like I was. Then, maybe, she would push through it and tell herself that words don’t last forever and that her mother really did love her. I tried to do as she did, but the pain was like a knife: whenever I tried to pull it out, more pain flooded through me. So what, then? What did I do? I couldn’t stay on this rooftop until the pain went away; it would linger with me for many days, and only time could heal the rift. I needed a solution for the now, not the tomorrow. Make a list in your head, Morgan, I thought. This was a helpful way of reminding myself of everything good that I knew to be true about my mother. Number one, my mind continued, your mother really does love you. More tears escaped, but they weren’t as agonizing. Number two, you really aren’t very fit. She just wants to help. I could think of no more after that (though I racked my brains in searching), and my teeth were chattering. Reluctantly, I climbed down from my perch to return to the warmth of the house. Suddenly a thought came to me. There were girls like
Family
Iron Chef
Yum. The sweet smoky aroma of barbecued ribs fills the backyard and slowly drifts into the house. The backyard has uneven, rough stone tiles and a Big Green Egg Kamado (Japanese barbecue smoker) under the potato tree. Grass and roses are growing to the side. The chef learned how to cook so well from her mother. The chef expresses herself through cooking. She says, “Cooking is my way of art and creativity.” The chef is CC Zhang, my mom. CC Zhang has black hair, dark eyes, a high bridged nose, is slender, and is tall. Mom looks like a typical Northern Chinese woman. Mom has a confident gait and is not afraid to say no. She wears a smile but has little patience for nonsense. Mom is extremely disciplined and mentally strong. Before she came to America, my grandpa told her, “Work hard, and be the best.” When she came to America, she didn’t have money, didn’t speak a word of English, but remembered her parents’ words. She was an honor student at her college and for years was titled, “The Most Productive Employee of the Year.” Mom was born in Beijing, China. She has three older sisters and two older brothers. They have a close relationship. I asked, “Do you have a favorite memory with them?” Mom replied, “Oh, every day.” Mom has never gotten into an argument with her older siblings. My grandma and grandpa used to tell them to be nice to each other. They used to live near Tiananmen Square. On the weekends, they would play together in the park and fly kites from time to time. They would also go to the movies. After that, they would go to a fancy restaurant. There were only a few fancy restaurants in Beijing back then. Mom said, “From then on, I was fascinated by food.” Her cooking is the best. I have had it every day, and there was never a time where I went “blah.” Ethan’s mom as a girl in China (left) and today My mom also was surrounded by cooking when she was little. Grandma used to host parties often. First, Mom would watch. Later on, she started to help cook. Eventually, she cooked entire meals under Grandma’s watch. Mom is extremely focused when she cooks. She is very aware of what is happening in the kitchen and organized. Once, I told her, “You look very intense when you cook!” My mom answered, “It looks intense, but cooking is very therapeutic for me.” I continued to question her, “Why did you come to the United States?” She answered with a smile, “To go to a university.” A couple times a week, after Mom drops me off at school, she goes grocery shopping. She is picky about the quality of the produce: fresh and tasty. Mom often shops at a locally popular store. Her creativity is reflected when she is cooking. She almost never uses a cookbook and all is from her vast imagination. Once she said, “Real chefs create their own recipes, but a cook uses the recipes.” Since kindergarten, we have had a house rule where there is no TV watching during the weekdays. However, on the weekends, when my mom gets a chance to watch TV, she only watches the cooking show. The cooking show gives her inspiration, but she does not copy the recipes. She often tells me, “Presentation of the food is equally important to the taste because the presentation and color of the food give the person an appetite.” Last Thanksgiving, we hosted a party. All the dishes were different colors. It was like looking at a rainbow. There was dark amber, orange, magenta, green, and white! One of the guests cried, “It is too pretty to eat!” When I was a baby, my mom told me that I never had baby food from the grocery store. It was always homemade from scratch. The first time my mom bought baby food and tasted it, it was horrible. Since then, the family menu changed. Everything is made from scratch. This includes soup, meat, vegetables, and even marmalade. When I like a dish or dishes from a restaurant, she says, “I’m going to try and make it at home.” She always does it perfectly. Mom’s dishes always have a lavish look and are utopian delights! The presentation is exquisite and artistic. Dad said, “She has a very good appetite.” One of my favorite dishes is barbecued ribs, and when mom made them, they were juicy on the inside and crunchy on the outside. The color shades ranged from dark brown to light brown. The meat came off the bone easily. The taste was out of this world. Mom always cooks multiple dishes at once, a skill that I admire. I think it is very hard to do multiple tasks at once, but she seems to do it with ease when it comes to cooking. Mom uses a variety of different ingredients, sometimes making variations of previous dishes. When I look at her, I see the culture of China. Food is the center of life. In China, instead of asking, “How are you doing?” people on the street ask, “Have you eaten yet?” The funny thing is, when I am eating breakfast with my grandma, she asks me what I want for lunch and dinner. Mom knows every sound in the kitchen. If she hears bubbling and popping sounds, then she knows the water is boiling. If she hears a sizzling sound, she knows the pan is hot enough and it is time to put the food on the pan. When she smells the food, she knows the food is done. She knows this by heart, a skill accumulated through her years of cooking. Now I have a great gourmet sense of food. I can thank my mom for that. Food is the culture, and the culture is the food. Dad says, “Mom’s cooking has a unique combination of flavors, and
Owl Song
A girl sat on her bed, staring up at the ceiling. “It’s not fair!” she yelled to the room. “I didn’t ask for them to die!” The girl’s eyes filled with tears as she punished herself inside for saying that word. Aunt Emilia had always been so strict about saying die in her house. She had scolded her, Sarah, for a little slip, saying severely, “The Lord did not wish us to scorn those passed away with that dreadful word.” But they are dead, Sarah thought, and no amount of pretense would change that. The girl surveyed her bare little room. A wooden bed, desk, and dresser, with only a single small window and threadbare carpet, these had always been the furniture in her homely room. Sarah stood and went to the dresser, gazing into the old cracked mirror atop it. She desperately hoped to see something different this time, but no. She had the same straggly shoulder-length brown hair, pale almond-shaped face, and dark brown eyes, large in her thin little face. Sarah turned, furious with herself, her reflection, and her life. Out the window she glanced, wanting desperately to see someone kind and comforting, but what she saw made her draw back in fear. Penelope and Sasha, the chief bullies in school, were walking along the street. They were popular, pretty, and everything she wasn’t. Sarah had lately become their favorite target. She stepped away at once, but not before Sasha had seen her. She whispered something to Penelope, who smirked, and together they mock-waved at Sarah. “Mrowww?” asked Ginger curiously, seeing his owner was upset She turned away from the window in a rush, needing something on which to take out her anger and frustration. She wanted to smash that mirror and scatter its fragments to the world, on top of those girls down there, to show them what it felt like to be her for just one minute. Sarah made a movement to grab hold of it, but her cat, Ginger, stopped her with a leap across the room. “Oh, Ginger,” Sarah sighed, “you always know what’s best.” For the girl and her cat both knew what would happen if she had hurled the mirror away, and it would not be good. Lonely young Sarah sometimes pretended that Ginger could understand her, and she told him all her worries. “Mrowww?” asked Ginger curiously, seeing his owner was upset. “The most awful thing’s happened, dear,” replied his mistress, for she felt she must get the story out somehow. “Aunt Emilia has decided to send us off to live with two old people in the country! Oh, apparently the Martans are ‘kind and hardworking folks, Sarah dear,’ but I don’t want to go live like a slave of some old grandparents! But has Aunt Emilia ever cared what I want? No, it’s always ‘Sarah do this’ and ‘Sarah do that,’ without the slightest thought of what I want to do. She’s been waiting for years to get rid of me, and now she has!” The poor girl sank onto her bed, in a flood of tears. She knew it wasn’t fair to speak of her aunt like this, but at the moment she was feeling too pitiful and misused to care. Maybe I could run away, Sarah thought desperately. I could go and live in the woods like children in storybooks. Or I could simply refuse to go. Aunt couldn’t force me to. Her heart sank. She knew these ideas would never work. So Sarah just lay down and cried her heart out. When at last she tired of tears, she lay still, exhausted from crying. The sun was bidding farewell to the world, spreading the sky with clouds as pale and soft as silk. Like a glorious fiery king, drawing his cloak around him, thought the girl, feeling as though an old friend had come to comfort her. Perhaps things wouldn’t be so bad after all. It wasn’t as though she had loved the old house, for in truth it had always seemed like a prison. The mocking portraits of wealthy relatives long dead; the carpets and furniture stiff and without a speck of dust; the plastic imitation flowers, seeming to say vainly, “We are better than the live ones, for we will never wilt or die. Come, admire and pay your respects,” all seemed to be setting an example which she must follow, though she was not sure she wanted to. And as for Aunt Emilia, no love had been lost between the two. The woman had considered Sarah as a duty and a nuisance, and was constantly reminding the girl how much she owed her, Aunt Emilia, for all that had been done for her over the years. Sarah got up and went to the window. A beautiful, tawny owl was sitting on a branch. There were no other birds. Sarah wondered if the owl was lonely. But no, she thought, its song is not one of sadness. It was a song of home, a new life, and finding yourself for who you truly are. Sarah felt and saw this vaguely, though she was too young to really understand it. Perhaps if she went away she would be like this owl, alone, but happy with her life, making herself a new path. Silly, Sarah chided sarcastically, like I have friends. The tears welled up again, but back on her bed things seemed better. Maybe, Sarah thought, it would all turn out OK. The last thing she heard before drifting into sleep was the owl hooting in the distance. The sound gave her courage; she had always loved owls. Briefly, Sarah wondered if an owl would sing to her at her new home. But before she could think any more, she had fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep. * * * Rain pounded against the roof of the car. Sarah watched the drops race down her window,
