Even though I remember these memories most as a 16-year-old, I know they began before my childhood days and continue even now. Routine. Tradition. Home.
The ring of the doorbell as a guest arrives. Whether the guests are expected or unexpected, all family members who are at home come out to greet. Small talk, smiles, handshakes. Dad sits with them on the living room couches. Mom steps into the kitchen, preparing cups of tea and small plates of biscuits, cookies, or fresh fruit. I'm there with her: finding teabags, pulling out spoons, looking for matching plates. I serve in multiple trips, first putting the snacks out in front of the guests while the tea steeps. When it's ready, I take the tea for our guests and place them on the coffee table first, then use two hands to give one to the male guest, then his wife (typically). Dad gets the next one, and I leave one on the table for mom. Always two hands. Uncle and Auntie, please drink, please eat. Depending on the relationship, the siblings and I may join them in the living room for awhile. Otherwise, we smile and slip back down the hallway with as little noise as possible until mom calls us back to grab another round of munchies from the fridge or pantry.
Years later, I'm in an apartment of (mostly) my own. A stream of friends are coming in today from near and far. I take out our pitcher of cold water and a few cups, pour Trader Joe's popcorn into a glass bowl. Ask each individual if they'd like some water, place the snacks in the middle of the table. We're on the carpet because the futon is a bit too hot, and since I don't have our other couch yet, we're a little short on seating. An hour later, everyone gets some ice cream. After dinner when we return, and a few extra folding chairs are pulled out so everyone has a seat. The pitcher comes back out, plus a pack of Keebler cookies. When the pitcher's empty, I slip out of the kitchen and refill it with tap and ice cubes.
In the student days, I was a bit lax on hosting. Student visitors were frequent and occasionally unexpected, and in busyness, the most I would offer was a cold glass of juice. Large groups were particularly difficult, so usually I just let down my standard and reminded myself that college students are used to wandering in a house to plop down and enjoy the company. They didn't expect refreshments. Still, I baked many a batch of brownies and often felt torn between simply opening my door and actually playing hostess.
But today, I'm proud to host. The room full of non-Asian friends know at least theoretically about our hospitality culture, but it pleases me to share it with them. I'm breaking some of the rules by not having enough cups, serving just water, and making our friends sit in a toasty apartment (I didn't have enough foresight to fix our air conditioning before today). Still, in my home, you should be comfortable, never thirsty or hungry. Maintaining this is intuitive: you're aware and in tune, filling the pitcher before it gets empty, bringing the napkins over because someone will need it. Set the snacks out because if they're there, they'll get eaten.
Perhaps one day, I will serve my guests hot tea in cups and saucers and biscuits from the snack section of the Asian market. But more likely, I imagine my hostess life to resemble what life as an Asian American always is: a hybrid, a merge of cultures, the best of both worlds. Sweet tea instead of ginseng, berries instead of oranges, pita chips instead of crispy egg rolls. But principles apply: serve your guests well, be prepared for them. Refill without asking, set up elements that are ready and present so they can enjoy the company and home without even thinking.
Today was a privilege, and I'll stock my apartment well to be prepared for this: cold juice and ice for the summer, a kettle and tea options for the winter, and always cookies, chips, and other snacks.
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