“What do you guys crave? I’ll send some.”
My sister and I live 600 kilometers away from hometown, a placid town in the middle of green hills. Every month without fail, our mother always sends us a box of food to help out. When we were little, it was our family ritual to gather around the hearty meals she cooked for us. Now that we’ve left home, through her bountiful care packages, it’s like she’s still by our side in a quiet but affectionate way. When we unbox her presents, the tastes of home and our childhoods fill our hearts with warmth.
There’s an exciting seasonality behind mom’s curation. In the rainy seasons, the box will be full of freshwater fish and prawns from her regular vendors at our market. During pond-draining periods, the seafood is always fresh and fat. Dozens of tiny eggs from our chickens are packed neatly in plastic jars in between rice straw as a cushion. Sometimes there will be treasures from the garden she maintains: greens and tubers, chubby bamboo shoots, and handfuls of mushrooms that still smell like wet soil. Whatever the best harvest of the day would end up in the box. In the summer, the box turns into a fruit display: durian, avocado, rambutan, longan, lychee, etc. She manages to squeeze the entire market into the box for us.
Every time I open the box, there’s a feast of precooked dishes that are carefully divided into portions enough for 1–2 meals so we don’t have to reheat too often: from fish braised with young bananas, lemongrass chicken, to beef stew. Pork and chicken from the farm, prepped and frozen; washed and plucked herbs — everything comes with written notes on how to best prepare it. It might seem effortless, but behind each box is usually two days’ worth of preparation, picking and shopping for ingredients, cooking, packing, and arranging transportation. I sometimes joke that she packs her motherly affection inside banana leaves, plastic wraps, and ice chunks in the care packages. It’s a kind of love that’s unpretentious but warmer than anything we’ve received in our lives.
One time, I texted her randomly: “Mom, I really want to eat heritage pork.” A few days later, she sent me 7 kilograms. I was beside myself with astonishment, perhaps this is just how all moms operate. The older I get, the clearer I can feel the strong pull of my hometown’s flavors within people like me, who grew up amongst the red dirt. We can’t help but yearn for those familiar tastes, despite living in the wealthiest and most developed city in the country, where everything is available at our fingertips. That visceral yearning, at times, can be tethered to something as humble as a bundle of vegetables that our moms pack in the styrofoam box.
Whenever the box just arrives at our doorstep, I always unpack it myself and carefully separate each item into categories: vegetables, meat, fish, and fruit. I will wash, freeze, or store them away based on mom’s instructions. This storage process has become my own ritual. I do it measuredly and mindfully. Perhaps subconsciously, I don’t want anything to spoil or be forgotten.
In the middle of our hectic modern life where every convenience is available, how she still painstakingly bundles the produce, layers each jar of shrimp paste, and ties up each bag of fruit is her way to maintain our family bond. At times, when I think of a time when she’s not around anymore, my heart sinks — who will send us care packages?
Anyone living away from home might see themselves in our story. Who hasn’t at least once received a box full of homegrown items? Every time I remove the lid, a rush of nostalgia floods my mind. Sometimes I burst into tears like a child, feeling so loved and cared for. If you are still living with your parents, maybe this can be a reminder not to take your meals together for granted.
Some day, I will too become a mother, doing exactly what my mother has been doing: sending my kids giant care packages filled with the flavors of home.
