For the past few birthdays, Christmases, and really any occasion requiring a gift, my Mother has been wrapping up her own belongings and passing them off on her children. It began the year that she divided old photos from her father’s side of the family among my brother, sister and me: huge stacks of ancient, scalloped-edged, sepia prints. For Christmas my boyfriend got an indoor grill from his mother; I got a box of anonymous, sour-looking Germans from mine.
Gift giving has never been particularly ceremonious in the French family household. My father routinely forbids us to buy him anything, ever, preferring to get something for himself. (Last Christmas my sister wrapped his present for him, attaching a card that read “To Dad: Only you know what you really want. Love, Dad.”) And yet this new trend of giving away my parents’ belongings is beyond eccentric; it’s morbid, even by my mother’s standards. The portrait of James Joyce and the highball glasses now residing in my kitchen aren’t examples of re-gifting. “I’m getting rid of my stuff,” my mother explains, pronouncing “stuff” as if collectible paintings and vintage crystal was a dubious-smelling carton of milk, “before I die.”
My mother happily referred to herself as a “good eater.” Although she was very petite, she could out-eat even our teenaged sons. Every year for Mother’s Day the Southern California branch of the family would drive to Little Saigon in Westminster and eat at Dong Khanh, where my mom ordered her favorites: lemon grass chicken, lobster in black pepper sauce, chow mein noodles with squid, vermicelli with bbq pork, spring rolls and a large bowl of pho ga — chicken vermicelli soup.