Crab Soup

My mother was stooped over the pot, stirring like a witch over her cauldron. She opened a can of crab meat and added it to the pot. The smell of the canned meat was putrid, but if it bothered her, she said nothing, and tossed the can away. 

In so many years she hadn’t changed at all. The lines on her face were a bit longer and there was less black in her hair. But the way she gripped the spoon, the neatness of the kitchen, and the tattered apron were the same image I had of her almost a decade ago. She saw me watching her and smiled , “ Almost ready,” she said, turning back to the monotonous stirring, sprinkling some spices into the brick red broth. 

I used to hate the soup, growing up. The combination of crab, tomato, and cilantro made my stomach turn. I remember sitting at the table, chopsticks loose in my hand and ladle barely skimming the surface of my bowl. In five minutes I hadn’t even touched it. Seeing this, my mother glared with the countenance of an angered queen, displeased at my disrespect. I wanted to glare back, but that would only get me a spanking, so I sipped at my spoon and avoided her gaze. Unfortunately, this was not enough to evade her anger, clearly, and she said , “ You giving me a dirty look?”.

I sighed, “ No Ma”. 

Her eyebrows raised and I shrunk back, “ Eat then. Do not be ungrateful.”

At that age I clearly hadn’t learned when to hold my tongue, and I mumbled, “ I wanna  eat something else.”

My mother took a moment to finish her soup and laid her chopsticks flat against the bowl. Her full attention was on me, “ Eat, what?”

I looked around the room, “ I don’t know...burgers.”

Her voice raised ,“ Ohh now you want burgers... will you buy the meat? Will you cook it? And then will  you pay the house? Pay the lights? Pay the gas? Or will you complain and whine. Spoiled, girl.”

My face was getting red and I could feel tears edging in the corner of my vision. But I didn’t cry in front of my mother, I still don’t. You cannot hide tears in silence, the easiest way I knew was through anger. And so I raised my voice back, “ I was just saying we could eat something else. Why are you making this a big thing?!”

“Do not talk back to me,” She said, with the finality and gravitas that only a mother could do, “There are starving children in my country who would be grateful for this meal. Eat the soup.”

“But I don’t want to eat this. Can’t we eat something normal?! This tastes gross.”

I didn’t even see her hand as the palm connected to my cheek, stinging my face. I instantly recoiled from her strike, rubbing at the spot where she had hit me. 

“I said do not talk back at me. I did not starve in my country for you to disrespect the food I give you. You don’t wanna eat this? Fine. Then find a new mother to care for you and love you. Do you not value me?” Her question hung in the air, unanswered. 

If she saw my tears drip into my bowl, she didn’t say. She rinsed her spoon and the pot and returned to her chores, leaving me at the dinner table. I wanted to scream back at her, shout at her, break something. I always did when she yelled at me. But I wasn’t that kind of girl. So I sulked in my room, and complained to my friends how much I hated her. And she would gossip with the other women in our neighborhood about how ungrateful teenagers could be. 

Though  the thing is, I never really hated her. And though she never told me herself, I don't think she was that mad either. Sometimes I fantasize that, maybe if I was a different child, I would’ve gone over to her later than night and apologize for what I said. And in my script she would say that it was all ok and we would hug and it would be over. But I wasn’t that child, and she wasn’t that mother. I would not say sorry because I wasn't sorry. I may not have hated her, but I genuinely didn't think I was in the wrong, there was no need to apologize. As for her, she wouldn't say that she forgave me because she didn't forgive me.  Her temper may have been short lived, but her real issues with me? My attitude, my ungratefulness? Those she would not let go . And so, we would fight again, and it would end the same. Private tears in locked rooms, words of consoling left unspoken, physical affection left ungiven...

The clatter of ceramic bowls interrupted my reverie, as my mother began serving the soup. I opened the drawer and set our utensils and napkins on the table. We began to eat, I tasted the rich flavor of tomato, crab, and spices. My mother’s recipe only improved over the years and she smiled at my appreciation. 

I smiled back at her. “Did you change anything in it?”

She nodded, “ I add a little more pepper this time. You like it?”

“It's amazing,” I said.

We finished our meal and sat at the table, drinking tea. I thought about telling my mother about the memory. I would share with her how childish I remembered being, how I had no idea how she put up with me. Maybe then she would laugh and say that she always loved me, even if I was being bad. And then I would thank her for everything she did for me, for feeding me, for housing me, for loving me. Then I would hug her and she would sniff my cheek, and that would be that.

But I am a different child than that, and she is a different mother than that. She went to the kettle and poured us both some tea. We drank it, in silence.