I remember a bowl of plastic fruit.
I remember the bowl sat atop the fridge in our little kitchen. Nothing more than a hidden decoration for the short and petite. Out of sight but not out of mind.
I remember the bowl had all manner of fruit—grapes, apples, oranges, and a banana that was too yellow and misshapen to be mistaken for real. They were poor imitations, nothing more than props to be used by twenty-somethings with fussy children.
But, nonetheless, they fed me.
I remember my mother and I created a ritual to keep each other fed until the end of time. It went something like this: I complain about the texture of the rice. My mother mashes the curry and rice together by hand until it’s unidentifiable. She shovels spoonfuls of said nothingness into my mouth. In return, I offer her some of my plastic fruit, sometimes grapes or even the gnarly-looking banana. She pretends to take a bite and chew thoughtfully. End scene. We’d rinse and repeat this performance day after day, with my father, the stagehand, cleaning up anything we’d leave behind.
I remember my mother recounting the story of the plastic fruit, even after I reassure her that I’d heard it enough times. She always likes to end with you were always such a picky eater, you know? Drama girl.
I remember a glittery lunch box stained with curry. My mother woke up before the crack of dawn to pack hot lunch for my first day of school. I remember the food leaving a too-yellow banana-like residue on the cafeteria table in places where the box wasn’t tightly sealed. The boy next to me shrieked and pointed in horror. As if my lunchbox was an alien in a B-rated horror movie, just oozing ectoplasm. Disgusted, I threw everything away, staring longingly as the rice lay uneaten and limp at the bottom of the trash can. Inedible. Just another prop.
I remember my mother saying, after I came back from school: Did you finish all the food I packed? When I showed her my empty lunchbox, she was overjoyed. It was my first convincing performance to date. I was always such a picky eater, you know? A drama girl.
I remember begging my mother to buy me Lunchables the next time she went to the grocery store. The other kids at school wore those sliced ham and cheese crackers like personal badges of honor. And then I remember the crushing disappointment I felt after biting into my first ham slice. Like swallowing plastic (but maybe plastic was more edible). Cracker in hand, I remember staring in longing at the gritty cafeteria table, at the unmarked grave of the banana residue. I imagined willing the alien back to life with my gaze.
I remember the bowl of plastic fruit. How it must have read, “WARNING: CHOKING HAZARD. KEEP OUT OF REACH OF SMALL CHILDREN.”
I remember my first time trying a mango lassi. I was visiting my aunt in India, and we visited a roadside vendor for refreshments after being roasted alive in the Delhi sun. I remember taking a sip from the plastic cup and enjoying the way that the coolness spread along the back of my throat. I prayed I could feel that cold all the time.
I remember my first time getting food poisoning after trying a mango lassi. Ten sips later and I lay on the exposed cement floor of my aunt’s apartment clutching my abdomen. Later I would learn that the tourists called it “Delhi Belly,” but I was adamant that I was no alien (just my gut apparently). I was always such a picky eater, you know? Even my gut was picky! I spent my remaining days in bed purging this familiar parasite from my body, like an A24 movie. Like I was ejecting a bottomless cornucopia of phony fruit. Fruit that comes with labels like “WARNING: CHOKING HAZARD.”
I remember alien guts and gut aliens.
I remember a biology professor’s presentation on how immigration changes the human gut microbiome. I imagined my mother stepping foot on U.S. soil for the first time and being stripped bare, her old gut displaced by a new one. A misshapen alien-banana one. Then passing her newfound loss onto her daughters. I remember blaming my food poisoning on a fraudulent army of gut colonizers infiltrating her DNA, my DNA. I was always such a picky eater. But pickiness is in our genes, don’t you see? Doesn’t it all make sense now? Doesn’t it?
I remember. I remember it all, but I forgot where my mother keeps the bowl of plastic fruit. Remind me to ask.
Sole Magazine