The Bound Chopsticks

Winona Murphy

When I was six, my family often went to the restaurant Emperor’s Choice. It is located in the Peekskill Beech Shopping Center, a quaint outdoor mall that I acknowledge but don’t dream about now. At six, I dreamed about it. On the outside, it had a pink flashing sign with some word on it. It was the North Star in the sea of darkness of the parking lot. Its light reached out and pushed me towards the restaurant, eager for a friend and comfort. And there was no other sign like it. Unlike the bulky “open” signs and blaring flashes of “welcome” signs, this one was modest and just stayed pink. 

I push open the glass door and am welcomed by an open kitchen on the left, two large fish tanks to my right, and the smell of pink duck sauce flying into my nose, the usual greeting. I am led into the dining area, with two rows of glorious booths on either side and some wimpy tables in the center. I stare at a picture of the Great Wall, guarding me from the outside world. I ask to be in a booth because those are the best seats, and I order. And no matter what I order, chopsticks in small red packets with those small yellow words and drawings come my way.

We would sit in a booth usually in the back next to the Great Wall wallpaper. My sister Hannah and I loved the seats closest to the wall, and so my older brothers Eugene and Quinn would sit together, and Mom and Dad would do the same. We were so happy getting the small slices of fried dough and dipping it into the pink duck sauce, the best part of the meal. Then we would order six or more dishes and share with each other. I could never imagine going back there again without anyone to share with—it wouldn’t be Emperor’s Choice otherwise. We would have fun divvying up vegetable portions. Lo mein, tofu, broccoli, cold sesame noodles to die for. Through tons of food, we would chatter till there were no more words. Those were the blissful days before first grade when we homeschooled together and my parents could be considered normal. Those dinners were carefree—no sadness was allowed to enter—the pink sign and duck sauce and the fish and the Great Wall wallpaper wouldn’t let it. 

The struggle was using chopsticks. Since I was a child the restaurant gave me chopsticks with a rubber band wrapped around the top so they would stay together and I could use them without worry. But I wanted to know the secret behind using them without the rubber band knot. I wanted to master the art. So I read the yellow printed instructions on the chopstick wrapper and started practicing. I would pick up a dumpling and slowly move it to the soy sauce, trying not to detonate my little atomic bomb. And as I dipped it in, I would bring the dumpling up and it would fall back into the soy sauce and the bomb would explode, the damage shown on my frown, deep lines imbedded in my face. And I wanted to keep going back to Emperor’s Choice so I could pick up the dumpling from the soy sauce and not let the bomb explode. 

That was when I found my true love, the one that made Asian food fun, and Emperor’s Choice dinners a chance to practice rather than talk with people. Practicing was so much better than talking. It was a new challenge. I even practiced at home when eating Mom’s vegetables. Chopsticks were my scarecrow, tin man, and lion combined into one. People would stare, but I didn’t mind. I was on an adventure that I didn’t want to stop.

After mastering that, I tried noodles, and then rice, which was the most difficult. I still struggle with the little grains. Especially with non-sticky rice, the key is to dig deep into the rice dish and open your chopsticks a certain width apart so you can carry a clump, but not immediately drop what you pick up. (That’s only from a lot—I mean a whole lot—of practice.) Real skill is when you can raise a mound of rice to your mouth without moving your head and without dropping rice. But then that is borderline impractical because it takes more effort and way longer to eat all the rice. I guess there is a fine line between practical and impractical, whether you see chopsticks as a practical way to eat three meals a day, or as a less practical way to test your limits of how much food you can carry how high for how long. I don’t know where that line is, but I like testing my limits. I branched out to using them at all Chinese, Japanese, and even Thai restaurants. They were the things my eye spotted first, even before the important stuff: family, friends, chocolate…. 

I saw them in grocery stores and I went berserk. I got decorative ones, ones with women in kimonos, others with forests and intricate designs. I thought they were so pretty they could not be used. Eating with them and seeing the paint fall off into the cold sesame noodles was my nightmare, not because of food poisoning—the more realistic fear—but because of the possibility of them crumbling into my hands. Among the hectic arguments between my parents, stepparents, and the constant trips back and forth between Mom’s and Dad’s, these delicate chopsticks were the one thing in my life that didn’t lose their beauty and become chaotic. I didn’t want to risk it. So the pile built up in my mom’s utensil drawer and soon was abandoned. In my freshman year, I flipped my world upside down. That was when I packed my bags, and instead of leaving my mom’s house for a week, I left for good. There were—and still are—clothes, books, papers, stuffed animals, pictures, and life there that I left behind that I didn’t have the motivation to go back and take with me. I didn’t want to be involved in that house again. I wanted a clean break, with no cracks or rough edges. That life included all of those beautifully painted chopsticks stacked in that utensil drawer in Mom’s kitchen. I still wonder whether I can use them, but now I have sailed away to my father’s house and those chopsticks are on my mother’s island far, far away—abandoned in a home where no one cares about them, and they just sit. I stopped looking for more chopsticks and even stopped thinking of using them. Eating became an involuntary action, and the fork was my new default.

***

At the Masters School’s Chinese New Year Gala of 2016, I joined in Chinese charades: a group of people acting out a word and then others having to guess the word in Chinese. We played in front of an audience, which made it even worse. I kept mumbling into the microphone, laughing at how bad I was. The winner would win a pair of chopsticks. I knew I wasn’t going to win. I kept reassuring myself: it’s just for fun, don’t get too invested. Later on, the moderator sneaked a pair into my hand. Confused, but glowing, I pictured my chopsticks stacked in that kitchen drawer, and I felt all my love for chopsticks come back. Shiny covering, bamboo leaves sprouting on the top, fine cuts, a sign of a good pair. So many possibilities. Maybe I could try to use them!

I brought these chopsticks into my senior English class to write about an object. There were other objects others brought in, and I could have written about them, but I chose my chopsticks. And as I kept writing, Emperor’s Choice appeared on the page. And I kept writing faster and faster, my memory consuming me. 

Emperor’s Choice was not like the rest. There were other restaurants my family and I went to—Italian, Mexican, Japanese, Thai, Greek, Indian…but there was no real connection to any of them. They were just restaurants. But Emperor’s Choice was different. That was my place of my childhood, when my whole family was together—when I found my love for chopsticks, and my imperfect family was one, and I had a chance of being normal. Chopsticks give me that peace, fun and laughter that still rings in my ears and warms my heart.