The Banana Who Rejects Her Peel 🍌

I identify as a “banana.” Yellow on the outside, aggressively white on the inside. Not the cute, self-deprecating kind—the militant kind. I despise Asian culture with the passion of someone who learned to survive by rejecting its traditions and expectations. And by “survive,” I am a car crash survivor, hemorrhagic stroke survivor, motorcycle crash survivor, heart attack survivor, get this: plane crash survivor!!!! The second I decided to migrate to Canada, I made a vow: no Asian words, no Asian habits, no Asian softness. Assimilation as self-defence. Accent as betrayal. Nostalgia as weakness. However, I do not know if ketchup-flavoured chips are a Canadian thing. I do not know; Caesars are cocktails, not emperors. I do not know these things because my life is spent pretending I already know everything. I learn about ketchup chips accidentally. From my Hollywood-superstar BFF. Because of course I do. Had he not introduced me to them, I would still be alive today without this knowledge. And I would have been fine. Ignorance is a luxury I once afforded myself. My mother, however, does not pretend.

Enter: The 70-Year-Old Baby in a Supermarket

My mother comes to visit us—my brother and I—in Canada, already in her 60s. She steps into a grocery store and immediately loses all dignity. This is the happiest moment of her week. She dashes. Not walks. Not browses. Without a limp or a single sign of aging. Dashes. Straight to the chips aisle. She stands there, a tiny woman from Hobbit Land (we are both from Hobbit Land; genetics is cruel and poetic), eyes sparkling like a child who has just discovered colour television. She grabs the family super-sized ketchup-flavoured chips. Family size. For herself. No hesitation. No discussion. No negotiation. She does not ask, “Do you want some?” She does not pretend this is for sharing. She does not believe in capitalism or portion control. She clutches the bag like a stolen treasure. At home, she sits her ass down on the couch, opens the bag, and digs in with the focus of a monk and the hunger of a war survivor. She finishes the entire bag. The bag is bigger than her torso. The bag is a threat. The bag is a dare. I watch her in horror and awe. This woman raised me. This woman also has zero shame.

Ketchup Fried Rice: The Recipe We Don’t Talk About

My mother has an original recipe. Let me clarify: It is original not because it is innovative, but because no one sane would claim authorship. Ketchup fried rice. I have never heard of it. I have never seen it. I have never admitted its existence in public. As someone who completed her prestigious Master’s degree in Milan, I do not have the guts to say the word ketchup in front of Italians. I would rather confess to a federal crime. This dish is culinary heresy, a bold mix of flavours that defies traditional recipes and challenges cultural norms. A crime scene. A red flag waving directly in front of every nonna in Italy. And yet. We loved it. We loved it when we were children, before knowledge ruined everything. Then we grew up. We learned more. We learned better. And suddenly, ketchup fried rice became hush-hush. Because here’s the truth, no cookbook tells you: When you grow up too fast, food becomes evidence.

Abandonment Has a Flavour

I have abandonment PTSD. Not the metaphorical kind. The kind where they record it, the kind that happens when you run away from home at 13 years old. I lived with depression, poverty, and financial struggles and unwanted roommates who never paid rent. Then, years pass, and when I finally come home from high school, I move from Hsinchu back to Taipei, and all these memories come rushing back. The locks to my own home are changed. My mom disappears. The house stood silent and empty, a stark reminder of absence, stirring feelings of loss and longing in my audience. There is a suicidal note. I call the authorities. Imagine what that does to a teenage girl. Do not romanticize it. Do not soften it. Do not tell me it made me stronger. It made me hyper-vigilant. It made love conditional and temporary. It made food suspicious. If I were not to have reconnected with my mom, then I would still think ketchup fried rice is an irresponsible dish for lazy, irresponsible moms. A shortcut. A quick substitute. It’s the sign of someone already halfway out the door. What happens when the media and the politician show up with CPS?

Netflix Confirms My Trauma 🍿

Then, Netflix betrays me. I watch “Forget You Not” — the Taiwanese series everyone has watched and remain Top 1 for the longest time in Taiwan. The one that crawls into your chest and rearranges your organs. The mother in the show is irresponsible. Emotionally absent. She Plans to abandon her husband and daughter, but the daughter is hungry when she’s leaving for good. So, the mother teaches her how to cook the dish she grew up on. Surprise. Ketchup fried rice. She leaves after she teaches her. For good. I laugh. What else am I going to do? Trauma favours coincidence. It thrives on symbolism. “See? Even fiction agrees with you,” it says. If it wasn’t for my hemorrhagic stroke a decade ago, I wouldn’t have ever had a chance to taste this dish again. My body is betraying me. My brain is rehashing and reorganizing itself without my controlling it. And then I move to Taiwan to live with my mom. And then things change. Not dramatically. Not like an action scene in a TV show. It’s just an understanding of unconditional love, an experience that can only be realized by observing and understanding the love of a mother for her own child. No TV show. No social media share. There’s the type in which the other person remembers not to say ‘I love you’ but remembers to use the right amount of oil so that your tummy won’t hurt. And then I ask for it: “Can you make ketchup fried rice for me?” Not because it’s simply not the dish that I want. But because it’s an element that can only be provided by one person: my mom.

The First Bite After 30 Years

She gets cooking. The sound of the oil splashing in the pan is very loud compared to the thoughts in my mind. The caramel sweetness of the ketchup mixture, combined with soy sauce , and obscene is well known . She doesn’t measure. She never has. She moves with the power of a woman who has raised kids through the chaos. As she hands me the plateful of food, I freeze. This is not food. This is evidence. I take a bite. And then, I am eight again. I’m thirteen years old again. I am home. The fried rice carries a flavour of childhood, neglect, love, and the will to survive. It has the taste of a woman who had stayed, gone away, and then has somehow come back. I cry. Of course, I cry. She regards me with bewilderment, amusement, and slight consternation. “It’s just fried rice,” she says. No. It’s not.

To My Mother, Who Forgets the Past

You forget. It’s okay, I remember for both of us. However, I have something I’d like you to understand: When I ask for ketchup fried rice, it’s not a request for food. It’s a request for you not to disappear on me again. It’s a request for you to be with me in the kitchen, the house, and my life. It is a call for you to become my mom, starting now and for the rest of, for all of, infinity and infinity. And you do. You always do. In your own way.

Final Confession

This dish is embarrassing. This dish is shameful. This dish would have me excommunicated in Milan. But it’s also perhaps the most authentic dish I have ever tasted. Ketchup fried rice is not lazy. It is survival cuisine. It is motherhood without a script. It is love cooked under pressure. And I will eat it forever. With gratitude. With guilt. With tears. With my whole heart.