From the writers to their mothers

Cards, Cooking, Camellias: Claire Wen

You smile as you put down your final card. “Da wang.” Joker.

It’s Saturday evening and I brought up the idea of playing cards earlier, so all of us are sitting in the living room, groaning and whooping with respective losses and victories. By chance of seating arrangements, we make up one team, my sister and Dad the other. 

We make a good team. In general, you’re more willing to take risks, pulling apart pre-made combinations to attack an opponent, while I play conservatively, saving my bombs and straight flushes for the end. It balances out. After a few brief hiccups, we win round after round.

It’s Tuesday evening and you call me to wrap dumplings. You’ve made the filling already; even though meat would make it easier to wrap, you’ve indulged my request of only vegetables and egg. You normally just fold the edges together, but I pleat mine because I reckon there’s more structural integrity this way. You comment that the way I’m pleating it probably isn’t traditional. I respond that as long as it holds together, it works. You laugh and agree.

I pout as the wrapper on one of mine splits — I must have tried to put in too much filling — but you say it’s OK, and we can just pinch it back together. We don’t expect the dumplings to have too much structural integrity anyway; we’ll steam them, instead of boiling and subjecting them to the tumbling water.

It’s Saturday afternoon and you’ve brought home a camellia plant. With my limited interest in gardening, I grumble as you pull me into the backyard to help plant the camellia. What use are flowers, I tease. They aren’t vegetables; you can’t eat them.

You chuckle and shake your head at my practicality. They make the surrounding environment better; it can bring up your spirits when you see them, you say. After all, why do you like desserts when bland food would do the job?

Every day of the week, I learn from you, I see your care for me, I love you.

The best gift imaginable: Shivani Madhan

“Happy birthday to you!” Everyone sings as I blow out the candles. 

It’s my 12th birthday and we’ve just had a lavish lunch at Benihana, the hibachi table still hot and our stomachs full. We spent the morning prancing around Vallco Mall and devouring popcorn as we watched “Middle School: The Worst Years of My Life.”

You take me to the Italian restaurant across from Target simply because I’m craving ravioli that day and buy me a new sketchbook, even though I have plenty of unused ones. You invite our neighbors over and put out a whole assortment of chaat just for me. You make my favorite pancakes for breakfast and spell out “HAPPY BDAY” with fruits, and then drive our family down to San Francisco because I wanted to go somewhere. Each birthday is special, unforgettable.

Yet the gifts I’ve received and the places I’ve been aren’t what really matter ― it’s you. Every year without fail, you take the day off from work and spend time with me, just to show how much you care.

And it’s not just on birthdays. Every day you do so much, balancing your work life with being an amazing mother. The way you wake up early every morning to make me lunch doesn’t go unnoticed, and your unexpected hugs always make me feel so cared for.

So even though this won’t make up for the endless things you’ve done for me these last 16 years ― thank you. I love you, and I really should say it more.