Until It Tastes Good

A Lao Mother’s Lesson in the Kitchen

By Channapha Khamvongsa

My mother, Phouang, makes kanmom tien (caramelized rice dough stuffed with seasoned minced pork and mung bean) the way her mother, Bounnak, taught her.

Growing up, my favorite activities were playing kickball with the neighborhood kids or tennis with my father and cooking with my mother.

Helping my mom in the kitchen was a way I got to spend time with her, and if I were lucky, hearing her share stories about how she helped my grandmother prepare desserts to sell at the market when she was my age, or how she missed the mum (cured liver and herb) from her Thakek hometown.

“Sai lai bun dai - how much should I add?” I asked, with a curved aluminum spoon in one hand and the bottle of fish sauce in the other. At nine years old, I stood ready as my mom’s kitchen helper. My job was to add the seasonings to the knamom tien (caramelized rice dough stuffed with mung bean and minced ground pork). This batch filled the kiddie pool-sized mixing bowl, which would make about 100 servings.

“Pong hai mun sap - flavor it until it tastes good,” my mother unhelpfully replied to my plea for guidance. She adds, “Sim ao - taste it.”

I grabbed another spoon and took a small nibble of the mix, “How do I know if it tastes good?”

“Sim ao - how does it taste?” She replied.

“I think it might be a little bland.” I poured two spoonful’s of fish sauce and tossed the mix. Tasting it again. I said to my mother, “I think maybe a little bit more salt.” I added half a spoon, mixing it thoroughly again. “Could you taste it too?”

She tried it and said, “It might need a little sugar. So I added a spoonful, mixing the ingredients to make sure the sugar was distributed evenly and tasted it again. I smiled at her, “I think it’s good now.”

Although I enjoyed spending time with my mother, helping her cook was also a source of frustration because I wasn’t provided clear measurements or instructions. But for her, learning by doing was the way she was taught and the way my grandmother taught her.

I was in the kitchen almost daily, helping her make small meals for our family. But mostly, I was taught to cook for a village – in large quantities, using a commercial-sized bowl, for mixing laab or nam khao (rice crispy salad), to take to someone's house, the temple, or other community gatherings.

I didn’t know it then, but my mother was teaching me some of the most important lessons I’d carry with me through life.

She taught me to learn by doing

When I stepped in the kitchen, I was always given a task. Sometimes it was washing, peeling or chopping vegetables. Other times it was cutting banana leaves and wrapping mok (steamed herbed with chicken or fish). She guided me, but usually let me find my way by trial and error. Sometimes I sliced the vegetables too coarsely or folded the banana leaves in the wrong direction, causing a split and the juice to ooze out when steamed. I folded the next batch differently. Just by spending time in the kitchen with her, I had a sense of purpose, gained independence and experimented, sometimes improving on the way a dish was prepared.

When I was older and started to cook for roommates and friends, who hadn’t spent much time in the kitchen and were uncomfortable holding a sharp knife, I realized how much I had learned from my mom. I maneuvered around the kitchen with ease and confidence, using my learned knife skills to devein shrimp at lightning speed or quickly debone a whole chicken into parts for laab and lemongrass chicken broth.

I learned the order and level of heat in cooking various ingredients. Harder to cook items like meats go in first (high heat to seal in juice and flavor), sometimes braising them (low-heat), and topping dishes with leafy vegetables or herbs at the end, so as not to overcook them. I also learned about balancing salty and sour, savory and sweet flavors. And she taught me how to taste for - nua, which I couldn’t describe to my friends, since the umami flavor wasn’t officially recognized by westerners as one of the five basic tastes until 1990, though a requirement in savory Lao dishes for nearly a century.

She gave me the confidence to trust myself and my intuition

My mother encouraged me to taste for myself and develop my own likes and dislikes. The way people from Lao eat, it’s communal but also highly individualized. There is no shortage of condiments, herbs, and spices to accompany and alter any main dish. Even when ordering at the papaya stands or restaurants, you always guide the person making the papaya salad. You tell them whether you like it sweet or sour, spicy or mild, prefer shrimp paste or padaek, and even how well-smashed you want the ingredients. It’s not seen as an offense to the maker, but a welcome banter rooted in clarity of wants and needs. This early practice in awareness would transfer to all aspects of my life. Having the self-awareness to know what feels right or wrong, and to trust those feelings, was a skill I learned early in the kitchen and which I benefit from in my personal and professional life.

My mother, Phouang, in front of an ornate fruit and dessert structure, one of the many homemade Lao food dishes, she coordinated for our wedding.

She taught me the art of gathering

Mom not only taught me the generosity by which we offered food to friends, family and community, but it was given in abundance and often anytime of the day. Unlike now, where I find myself scheduling get-togethers weeks in advance, I grew up with our family friends dropping by any day and time of the week. As soon as guests came through the door, mom asked, “Kin khao lae baw - have you eaten?” It didn’t matter if it was 10am or 4pm, we brought out beverages, which were followed by snacks, which sometimes led to meals. And if we didn’t have something ready to eat, my mom would quickly go to the kitchen, with my help, and whip up something.

And if we didn’t have enough . . . who are we kidding . . . we always had enough! Thanks to the surplus of food stored in our second refrigerator and freezer. We were prepared in case the entire community showed up unannounced. My mother taught me to welcome and nurture friends, family and community. And our guests usually said good-bye with a bag of food in their hands.

Food was my mother’s way of showing love. Not only by feeding me, but showing me how to nurture others. She guided me, but taught me to be independent and fearless in and out of the kitchen. And the lessons of experimenting, formulating opinions and trusting my taste and intuition, are skills that I’ve carried throughout my life. Not just in the kitchen, but classrooms, work spaces, and community.

On this Mother’s Day, may we, as caretakers, teachers, colleagues and friends, encourage and trust others to explore and experiment “until it tastes good” – to them.

My mother and I, not in the kitchen, and enjoying our time in the hospitality of others.