Under the Table: The Heartfelt Connection of Food and Family

In Taiwan’s kitchens, you can judge prosperity by which cut of pork a mother uses for lard. Pork belly may lack prestige, but my mother could transform even the humblest cut into an extraordinary feast through her sensory curation—turning aroma, texture, and flavor into moments of kinship.

During 1990s festival gatherings, relatives would convene around our expanded round glass table while I hid underneath, sneaking morsels and clipping words from the newspaper. As my eyesight improved, those daily word hunts became a playful sensory prototyping exercise that sharpened my reading and writing skills in record time.

Despite our table’s lack of privacy, friends flocked to my mother’s cooking for the genuine warmth she infused into every pot of soup. She taught me that food is more than nourishment—it’s a multi-sensory map of family love and cultural heritage.

I recall our visits to the local market, trailing behind vendors as my mother explained each ingredient’s origin. Through these fieldwork–style explorations, I learned to appreciate diversity of taste, aroma, and texture—and to welcome the world with an open heart. “Kayo,” she’d say, “your relationship with food reflects how you engage with life.”

Though I grew up with a voracious appetite, my mother never imagined she would raise a cook who once struggled to read. As convenience stores multiplied and younger generations shied away from the stove, she reminded me that passion fuels the fire of creativity—whether at home or savoring a chef’s craft in a restaurant.

Our upbringing mirrored Taiwan’s rapid economic rise: parents who endured hardship gave way to opportunities in a booming economy. Educational backgrounds varied widely, yet my mother’s lessons in sensory insight and creative resourcefulness bridged generational divides.