I have a cute student named Cheri. She has doe eyes and gorgeous handwriting. She's from the Philippines. A few months ago, she and her boyfriend Eric realized they are expecting a baby.
Cheri is not the first of my students to become a young mom, but she is the first to invite me to her baby shower. The invitation was addressed to "Mr. and Mrs. Forbes" and printed on lovely blue cardstock with a tiny brown bear at the top. Because Matt is Matt, he said he would be delighted to accompany me.
In my 44 years on the planet, I think I've been to 30 or more baby showers, so it was with some confidence that I told Matt what to expect: a few trays of finger foods, mountains of gifts wrapped in pastel patterns, and a couple of silly games involving bows and the crossing of one's legs. "We'll bug out as early as we can," I promised, figuring he'd be bored out of his mind watching women ooh and aah over Winnie-the-Pooh booties, even with the promise of a slice of cake.
Everything, and I mean everything, about Cheri's shower was a first for both of us. After we got off the metro, we walked about a mile through Koreatown, trying to orient ourselves by where downtown and my school might be in relation. The writing on all of the buildings and billboards was in Korean, of course, so that wasn't much help. Thankfully, I married a man with an affinity for maps and a nose for good food, so he expertly navigated us right to the door of O Dae San, the restaurant where the party was located.
I completely forgot that we westerners are conspicuously punctual, whereas island and Latino cultures are not. We lolled around the patio for close to an hour before the party got into full swing -- and what a party it was. Nearly 100 of Cheri's and Eric's family, friends, and classmates crowded into the dining area, everyone arriving with huge boxes of diapers and enormous appetites. We sat across from Robert and Gloria, a couple who were -- thank goodness -- experts at what to do at a Korean bar-b-que. Their English was good (whereas we speak almost no Spanish and zero Tagalog), and they patiently guided us through the meal.
At a Korean bar-b-que, meat is, well, rather central to the meal. Platter after platter of raw meat from pretty much every mammal I can think of kept showing up at our elbows. One used the tongs to spread it across hot, conical griddles shared by every four diners, and scissors to slice up pieces too large to manage eating with chopsticks. Robert and Gloria hit the protein jackpot when they decided to sit across from a couple of middle-aged vegetarians. Not to be deterred, Matt and I set in on all of the little bowls of side dishes the wait staff were quick to refill for us: sauteed tofu, Kimchee, pickled sprouts, marinated broccoli, and chopped Romaine salad. The best were the hot plates of thin vegetable pancakes and the steamed eggs served in little black kettles. I have no idea why they were green, but they were so delicious, I put Dr. Seuss out of my mind and dug right in. I got frustrated with the sticky rice not sticking to my chopsticks, but Matt managed to sail right through two or three dishes of it. My favorite sauce was a concoction of some kind of white oil, salt, and pepper. As Naomi Shahib Nye writes, "My mouth was a carwash for the spoon."
Even though only women were invited to play the baby games, Matt tried desperately to join in and win. He shook every young man's hand, and kept everyone within earshot smiling with his warmth and kindness. He found a manager who spoke English and figured out a way to pay for our meal without alerting Cheri's mom that he had done so. His obvious concern for Eric's youth moved me. More than once, a shadow crossed his face, and he whispered, "Melissa, he's freaking out. He's so young." Yes, my love, I know. They all are.
On our walk back to the metro station, we passed a crowd of Hispanic women in a small parking lot selling champurado, horchata, and fruit juices from enormous orange coolers, a site we often see in various parts of downtown L.A. and one that never fails to make us smile. We haven't been brave enough to take out our money and buy these lovely drinks, but we will. Across the street from the parking lot, an aroma of pastries was so intoxicating, we ducked into the bakery they were spilling from and filled up a platter. Matt worried that his $10 of remaining cash wouldn't be enough to cover the tab, but I said I doubted the bill would top three bucks. I was almost right -- $3.05. The woman working the cash register wore a flour-covered apron and frowned at us a bit suspiciously. She need not have. We only wanted conchas and cheese cake.
I fell sound asleep on Matt's shoulder on the train ride home. As we walked the last couple of blocks to our apartment, Matt said, "What a perfect night," and then he looked at me in all seriousness and asked, "Melissa, have we spent the majority of our lives under a rock?"
Yes, my love, I think we have. And if L.A. has taught us anything, it is this: no more.
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