I wiped the back of my hands on the pink tablecloth. Maybe he didn’t hear me above the babel in the restaurant. I looked around banquet table, across the circle of half-eaten platters of steamed carp, soybean sprouts, seafood soup, barbecued meats, sautéed prawns, and crispy bean curd. I searched the various “aunties” and “uncles” at the table, who not only appeared unmoved by my distress but exhibited tacit disapproval and annoyance for the interruption. There was not one ally among them. Uncle Jiang said that it was a delicacy and only dummies didn’t know how to eat sea cucumbers. Bu huei ci—not knowing how to eat—is a phrase that refers not to inability but intrinsic lack of appreciation for the food. It was a character deficiency. Thanks for nothing, uncle. And with that, the matter appeared to be settled. The dummy was expected to shut up and eat.
Every several months, whenever he would let us know that he was in town, my father would pick up the two of us, my sister and me, from mother’s house to take us out for dinner. These occasions were intended, ostensibly, to spend some time with his daughters. But, he operated under the “more-the-merrier” concept of socializing, double-booking paternal responsibilities by inviting his brother’s family and some colleagues, thereby upping the efficiency of the evening. What’s the harm in that? He can see his daughters and at the same time engage in grownup conversations about business and gossip. And, from time to time, he could update his friends about us.
“She’s ten years old now. Ten, right?” Eleven.
“She plays music a lot. Piano. Tell them what you play.” Piano and violin.
“She reads all the time. She does well in school: that’s all her mother. Yeah, we all know she doesn’t get that from me.” He would shake one hand and chuckle.
“She likes to write. Poetry.” Yes, I liked to write, but not poetry. I wanted to be a writer when I grew up.
“That’s not good. Writers make no money. You should want to be a lawyer.”
From the corner of my eye, I saw my cousin smirk. She is only one year younger than I am and her mother regularly pits her against me in competition whenever possible. The conversation turned to some other topic about money. They had already exhausted all interesting, relevant, and obligatory details about me.
With a plastic chopstick, I poked the one-inch chunks wading in an unctuous pool on my plate. One, two, three, and a half pieces. Was it my imagination or were they still quivering? Like their distant starfish cousins, sea cucumbers are echinoderms, possessed of leather-hard spiny skin and gelatinous body. As the name suggests, they are shaped like cucumbers. Or in Chinese, hai shen means sea ginseng, promising all sorts of restorative medicinal benefits. Several intensive days of preparation—gutting, washing, repeated boiling, dehydration and rehydration—ensures that impurities and flavors have been leeched out of these bottom feeders. The texture is a little bit chewy, a little bit crunchy. Every time I “try” it, it tastes like fishy bicycle tires.
“It’s good. Try it.” My father said this as if it were an incontrovertible truth: sea cucumbers are inherently good. It was inconceivable that any sensible person could actually reject it, even an eleven-year old who remained firmly unconvinced of its merits but would be compelled repeatedly to try it anew every time. It was not a matter of taste—at least, not mine. Certainly, his was not a willful disregard, but the fact that his daughter must be a reflection and beneficiary of his own absolute values. My ideas, feelings, or sensibilities had no place here.
My father is no longer around to force sea cucumbers on me. Even if he were, I probably would be better equipped to handle it, having had half a lifetime and adulthood to help me with the adjustment. At the time, it was difficult not to resent what appeared to be my father’s negation of me. I glared at his shoulder and sulked. To my right, my older sister was eating dutifully. She told me to stop acting like a spoiled brat: “Just eat it already.”
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