After my shower Julita offered me a snack. My first instinct was to refuse. But soon hunger and curiosity overcame self-deprecating Asian heritage. Luckily, like a gracious hostess, Julita offered again. Home-made hummus and toasted pita bread. “My own recipe,” she says with quiet pride. I know how to endear myself to people who cook—ask them how they made it and act amazed. Interject with comments like, “But how did you learn to do that!” “Did it take a long time?” “It’s better than store-bought!”
The next step to a woman’s heart: ask about her family. In no time, Julita and I were chatting like girlfriends.
Over the course of the week, my feelings toward Julita only warmed. In the morning she had warmed a home-made zhong-zhi (glutinous rice cake with seasoned meat and shiitake mushrooms wrapped in bamboo leaf) for me for breakfast, and she asked if I wanted green tea or milk tea. She would recite food options to me like a menu. What, I have options?
I have never lived so well in my life.
The next morning I had oatmeal. She asked if I wanted sugar. I hesitated.
A little, she suggested with a smile.
Ok, a little.
One night the family and I were all having dinner: salad, chicken kabobs, spaghetti. Julita came to take away the dishes. This was undercooked, the matron remarked, waving at the plate of chicken.
Ok, she said with her head bowed. Next time won’t make like that.
It was just right, I wanted to shout.
One night I was really late coming back from work. I keep oversleeping (SOML) the bus stop and getting off at some random countryside bus stop and having to walk the 2 miles back, or getting on some other bus to try to go back to Repulse Bay, and getting even more lost.
So, finally, after 9:30pm, I made my way back to the flat and barged in, work-weary and road-weary. Julita came out of the kitchen and laid out a place setting. She had kept dinner warm. She brought out plates of rice, meat, fish, and vegetables in almost no time.
How nice of her, I thought to myself.
The next day as I was getting ready to leave, she said, if you come back late, let me know, otherwise I keep food warm whole time and don’t know if should put away.
I felt so bad about letting her down. I betrayed her trust. I’m very sorry about that, I mumbled sheepishly. I got lost…the bus system is confusing…you know…
Is ok, she said. Next time call.
I felt like a little kid who had let down a teacher or parent.
If you don’t remember what that’s like, or if you never had a childhood, it is the essence of true contrition.
The next step to a woman’s heart: ask about her family. In no time, Julita and I were chatting like girlfriends.
Over the course of the week, my feelings toward Julita only warmed. In the morning she had warmed a home-made zhong-zhi (glutinous rice cake with seasoned meat and shiitake mushrooms wrapped in bamboo leaf) for me for breakfast, and she asked if I wanted green tea or milk tea. She would recite food options to me like a menu. What, I have options?
I have never lived so well in my life.
The next morning I had oatmeal. She asked if I wanted sugar. I hesitated.
A little, she suggested with a smile.
Ok, a little.
One night the family and I were all having dinner: salad, chicken kabobs, spaghetti. Julita came to take away the dishes. This was undercooked, the matron remarked, waving at the plate of chicken.
Ok, she said with her head bowed. Next time won’t make like that.
It was just right, I wanted to shout.
One night I was really late coming back from work. I keep oversleeping (SOML) the bus stop and getting off at some random countryside bus stop and having to walk the 2 miles back, or getting on some other bus to try to go back to Repulse Bay, and getting even more lost.
So, finally, after 9:30pm, I made my way back to the flat and barged in, work-weary and road-weary. Julita came out of the kitchen and laid out a place setting. She had kept dinner warm. She brought out plates of rice, meat, fish, and vegetables in almost no time.
How nice of her, I thought to myself.
The next day as I was getting ready to leave, she said, if you come back late, let me know, otherwise I keep food warm whole time and don’t know if should put away.
I felt so bad about letting her down. I betrayed her trust. I’m very sorry about that, I mumbled sheepishly. I got lost…the bus system is confusing…you know…
Is ok, she said. Next time call.
I felt like a little kid who had let down a teacher or parent.
If you don’t remember what that’s like, or if you never had a childhood, it is the essence of true contrition.
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