I fill the inside of my fridge with sticky notes and push pins. What are my plans for the day, who will be coming over? That’s what looking in my fridge can tell you.

As cold Chinese take out turns into home made meals, my friends start to question who I’ve been cooking for. They find a birthday cake inside with the name ‘John’ and giggle about when they are going to meet ‘John.’ I get nervous thinking if John is going to ruin his own surprise, but as long as he doesn’t use my kitchen, it should be fine. 

I imagine John opening my fridge, finding my mushroom prep work for the pho we will eat together after the celebration and noticing my 3 half full Sriracha bottles that don’t ever seem like they will make their way to the trash can anytime soon. No two fridges will look the same: my fridge looks different from another Vietnamese fridge, a Korean fridge will look different from a Chinese fridge. And it’s not open for critique, not open for questions, and not open for you to be taking the last of my spring rolls. Harsh red lines of my leftover Sriracha sauce surround the perimeter of my fridge like how a human leaves a circle of salt for a snail.

A friend once told me of their first time bringing curry to school. A food as foreign as a California sushi roll, but once was alien besides our peanut butter sandwiches and Yoplait at the lunch table. This friend recited to me the comments of “Indians are so dirty, why are you using your hands?!” “Your lunch smells so gross!” and other wicked phrases that brew from patriotic ignorance. 

They tell me how Indian Americans are the least integrated Asians within western culture. I reflect on my pho, my banh mi and try to find any moments in my life where I’ve felt ashamed of being Vietnamese. However, it is hard to argue with Asian dishes when they so closely replicate Western or European dishes: pho is derived from ‘pho au feu’ or french beef stew. Banh mi is served on a french baguette. It is clear to see that the chefs of these authentic Vietnamese foods were the colonizers as well, and how the amalgamation of east asian dishes in America were no more than a reunion of different accents of the same white kitchen.

An Ethiopian friend of mine once said he hated his culture’s food, the same person ridiculed by his ‘friends’ for his black curls and broad brow. I asked him, “how can you hate all Ethiopian food?” Because there is a difference between hating and becoming uncomfortable. Or maybe he just hates Ethiopian food. 

So you see now, John, why my fridge may be a sensitive topic for me. I wouldn’t want you to meddle with what I’ll be eating tonight or tomorrow. Because then that invites you to comment on what dishes should be served on Tết or Lunar New Year.

If you ask for hot sauce, I only have Sriracha. If you want pancakes for breakfast, you’ll get Banh xeo. My spaghetti looks like Bun bo nam bo, and fancy affogatos look like Ca phe trung. But if you are okay with these dishes, you’re welcome to take a seat at the table.