Zibby Mag

By Lani V. Cox

When I left my home state of Hawaii at 19 to attend college in Durango, Colorado—effectively the middle of nowhere—people made a lot of assumptions about me. They’d often stare for a little too long, even though there was a small Native American population and a Japanese exchange student program at Fort Lewis College, where I was studying to be a teacher. I became an Asian American ambassador of sorts, untangling people’s perceptions of Chinese and Thai cultures, and pointing out that being born in Hawaii didn’t make me Native Hawaiian. (You know, like, being born in America doesn’t necessarily make you Native American.)

The man who raised me was a working-class white guy. Some people had even derogatorily referred to him as “white trash.” I was also raised by my Thai immigrant mother. Both parental figures lacked higher education. Their families were poor, homeless, and too tan to be privileged. My educated Chinese father, on the other hand, died in a motorbike accident while we were on holiday in Thailand, so any direct influence he supplied stopped when I was five.

It must have been something I’d seen on TV. (Not the Ginsu knife that could cut through a shoe, or one of the many U.S. Presidential commemorative plates that late-night telethons were always pedaling. If I wasn’t such a nomad, I’d like to think I’d have a wicked plate collection.) No, it must have been sitcoms, B-movies, the dearth of (non Kung Fu) Asians on TV, and everyday observations that helped me establish my slightly irreverent sense of humor and identify with my class and generation more than my ethnicity.

No one wants to be known as trash, lazy, dirty, or poor. I knew watching Mom’s young boyfriend pass out in his armchair with his work boots still on after a day of construction—a Coors in one hand and a burning cigarette in the other—was not considered classy. Nor were the nightlong gambling sessions, hearing someone piss-drunk urinate outside my bedroom window, or all the throwing of (what seemed to be perfectly fine) appliances, knives, and plates across the living room.

We used to call Mom’s home cooking “foot food” because Northern Thai cuisine can be rather ripe and pungent. Honestly, it often looked like something that was scooped out of the garbage disposal. (The irony is not lost on me, as an expat now living in my mother’s birth country, that I’m eating traditional Thai food on a daily basis. Turns out Mom was eating some pretty tasty sludge.)

We ate pad see ew, raat naa, khao kaa moo, and all those other Thai dishes before they became world famous and trendy. That’s not to say she didn’t cook Western foods, because she did. My mom is a wonderful cook, possessing that annoying ability to taste dishes and instantly know how they were made. Even though she was a newly minted American, she whipped up blueberry pancakes from the Betty Crocker box with bacon and eggs for a weekend breakfast. She bought jars of Prego spaghetti sauce, grilled meats like Bobby Flay, and made rich beef stew from the McCormick seasoning packet.

Naturally, the orange rice cooker light was perpetually illumined, and we had a fine selection of instant noodles that would rival your local convenience store. For Thanksgiving, Mom mastered the bird, filling the house with wonderful smells from her overnight slow-cooking oven. We’d pop the cranberry sauce out from the can and slice it up. We’d enjoy Stove Top stuffing, green beans, mashed potatoes, and some store-bought pie, all served with a generous helping of rice, of course. (Except for the pie part. Don’t be weird.)

The man who raised me was a working-class white guy. Some people had even derogatorily referred to him as “white trash.” I was also raised by my Thai immigrant mother. Both parental figures lacked higher education. Their families were poor, homeless, and too tan to be privileged.

I wish I could remember when I experienced my first taste of green bean casserole. Normally, the oven was used to store pots and pans. Mom wasn’t a baker. But it’s conceivable that she learned this traditional Midwestern dish from one of her Thai friends, mostly military wives, who had to learn to be American for their American husbands.

In any case, the green bean casserole was a thrill to my taste buds. (Thank you, Dorcas Reilly from Campbell’s Test Kitchen for creating it.) When I left home and cooked for myself, I was over the moon-pie to discover how easy it was to make. At times, I made the casserole just for myself, with a heap of rice, and it was divine. French’s fried onions, Campbell’s cream of mushroom soup, a dash of soy or salt, black pepper, and frozen, instead of canned, green beans for the upgrade.

Whenever I joined friends and their families, a green bean casserole was a welcome sight to see, more so than any turkey or ham, because let’s face it, white rice wasn’t going to be on the Thanksgiving menu in most American households. Friends tried to accommodate my strange request by finding a box of Uncle Ben’s instant rice (much to my horror): something I had never noticed in the grocery aisle before, believing that rice only came in bags big enough to stuff a child in.

There was one particularly memorable Thanksgiving spent without my family. I was living in Eugene, Oregon, working part-time at a non-profit Internet Service Provider, training to be a Waldorf teacher, and renting a room in a house owned by a divorcée named Jo, who seemed angry at the world even though she got the huge house and a handsome boyfriend. Her best friend, Leanne, who was one of my teacher trainers, invited us to her house for the holiday. She hosted a big potluck and lived on a lovely farm that grew herbs and vegetables for a local Italian restaurant her family ran.

Her home was warm, filled with mingling friends, and the dishes that everyone brought covered the kitchen counters. I took my pan into the kitchen, looking for a place to put it down. I had made—what else?—my famous green bean casserole. That’s when I overheard my landlady, Jo, and our hostess, Leanne, in the middle of a conversation.

“Oh, look at all this wonderful food. What’s this? Oh! And what’s this?” Jo peeked under lids and foil and peered into plastic-wrapped food.

“Wonderful,” she continued to gush, then her tone changed, like a woman dishing out gossip. “I do hope no one brings a green bean casserole, though.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s so white trash.”

I waited to greet our hostess and find a spot for my food, studying my uncharacteristically happy landlord until she noticed me. “Oh hi, Lani! Good to see you.”

“What did you bring?” Jo beamed.

“I brought my favorite Thanksgiving dish,” I said, smiling, thrilled at the timing of this, and proudly held up my prize, “Green bean casserole!”

++

Lani V. Cox is the author of The Missing Teacher: A Memoir. She lives in Thailand, where she teaches third grade. Currently, she is seeking representation for Misfortune Cookie, a story about growing up Asian American, immigrant moms, and unconventional adventures in flexibility and resilience in America and abroad.