Sharing a short story about family traditions.
my little sister
Recently, I was assigned a school project on family traditions. Originally, I wrote this piece "Sunday is Noodle Day" just to complete the project, but the more I reflected on it, the more I realized the depth behind this story, and how it wasn't really just an 'assignment' to me.
I wanted to share the story I wrote, just as a reminder of the importance of family tradition and upholding your culture.
Sunday is Noodle Day.
Written by Olivia Fan
Sunday is Noodle Day. Ever since my mom established this over five years ago, every Sunday, without fail, was Noodle Day, at least for my family. Whether flavored with beef or chicken, topped with green onions or an egg, or eaten cold or hot, my parents were adamant about keeping this mini tradition alive.
When I was younger, I despised Noodle Day. Every Sunday, I implored my parents to change their minds. I didn’t want ramen or udon, I wanted Sonic and McDonalds. I dreaded the moment when my mother placed a bowl of steaming noodles in front of me, wishing for it instead to be a cheeseburger or better --- a Sonic Shake. I was the typical ungrateful child, but I was oblivious, blinded by my yearn to be American.
One particular Sunday, in which I had scarfed down my mom’s beef rice noodles rather fast in my haste to get it over with, I caught a glimpse of my mom’s face, a mixture of sadness and hurt. Concerned, I lowered my bowl, gazing at her with questioning eyes.
Sunday had always been Noodle Day for my mom. As a young girl raised among three other siblings in Kaifeng, China, her lunch usually consisted of something quick she picked up from a local shop or frozen meals. My grandmother often couldn't make it back from work early enough to cook something for my mom and her siblings. However, despite her packed schedule, my grandmother always made it back home for Sunday lunch. It became their tradition. My mom’s whole family gathered around their small wobbly, wooden table, happily slurping their noodles, enjoying the limited time they had together.
I never knew any of this until my mom sat explaining it to me, on our own wooden table, with my almost finished bowl of rice noodles resting on top. Guilt flooded me, as I realized how ignorant I had been towards my culture, in my rush to fit in with my classmates and their fast-food meals.
My mom told me how, in China, noodles mean more than just lunch. Originating from the Han Dynasty, it was the story of the ‘Crossing the Bridge Noodles’ that brought fame to this dish. It is told that in the city of Yunnan, there was a famous scholar who was struggling to come up with new ideas. He studied on an island, and everyday his wife would cross a bridge to bring him a bowl of noodles. However, disheartened by his failures, he often forgot to drink his soup, leaving it cold. His wife devised a new way of making the soup, pouring a thin layer of hot oil over the soup so that it would stay hot for longer, and then crossing the bridge. Oddly enough, it took just this hot noodle soup for the scholar to regain his spirit. Inspired by the scholar’s wife’s kindness, a bowl of noodles in China often represents warm family bonds and happiness.
Sunday is Noodle Day for my family. At the end of every week, we gather around our small wooden table, exchange stories and laugh at each other’s jokes.
And it’s perfect. All of it. My family, all together.
At the end of the day, it might just be beef rice noodles.
But I wouldn't trade it for anything else in the world. Not even for Sonic.
Essentially,
Olivia.