I don’t really have any food memories with my mom from when I was little. She took a job in Washington, D.C. while I lived with my dad in our hometown of Chester, Virginia. The smell of Burger King fries reminds me of her recurrent weekend visits, often made special by her presence and impromptu trips to the drive-thru. Around the holidays, we’d embrace our German heritage and make some no-bake chocolate-covered cornflake cookies, a recipe passed down by my Oma (grandma), who resides in Germany. These memories of indulgence helped me feel connected to her despite the distance.
When I began gradually embracing my queer identity at 19, things began to shift. Joining the retail industry exposed me to things that I knew very little about, including the LGBTQ+ community. While working at a bookstore predominantly run by lesbians, my appearance and overall aesthetic had its own Pokémon evolution, merging hipster-chic with androgyny. I even ordered a chest binder to wear on days when I’d feel gender dysphoria. These little changes made a huge difference in how I saw myself.
I remember the first time my mom spoke up. There was this unwavering sense of uncertainty and even curiosity as she walked to my bedroom. I was standing in front of my full-length mirror, making sure the collar on my plaid, short-sleeved button-down wasn’t flipping upward and waiting for my dad to pick me up for work and could feel my stomach in knots.My mom stood in the entrance to my bedroom and couldn’t have been more direct.
“Are you gay?” she asked.
“Would it matter if I were?”
“Well, are you?” she asked.
“Well, I know I don’t just like men,” I laughed.
That was not our last conversation about the topic. Sometimes I’d be cooking myself my go-to comfort meal of potato dumplings and gravy, and my mom would pop by the kitchen with questions as I waft the mouthwatering fragrance of spices towards my nose.
I remember one time we were on our way home from running errands, and as she was parking the car in the driveway, she randomly said, “You know a woman can’t love you like a man can.”
I could feel myself rolling my eyes before saying, “Yeah, I know. That’s kind of the point.”
A little over a year later, while my mom was making herself a salad in the kitchen, I came out to my mom as non-binary and expressed how I would love for her to call me Nadi instead of my dead name. It went worse than I thought it would.
“No! No! You are a girl!” my mom shouted at me.
“I… don’t feel like one. I don’t feel like any gender. I don’t even feel like a [dead name],” I shouted back.
My mom quickly left the kitchen with her salad and went into her bedroom before slamming the door shut. I’m 25 years old now, and not much has changed. I can’t get excited over rainbows without her instantaneously assuming I love them because of their association with the LGBTQ+ community and telling me to shut it down.
To reduce the bitterness over the years, I’ve tried using our love of food to mend our relationship. I would surprise her, and still do, with cheesecake-flavored cookies from Crumbl and leftovers from restaurants I knew she’d enjoy. In return, she’ll surprise me with angel food cake on my birthday and butter-flake crescent rolls from Pillsbury when I’m sick. The savory and sweet smells seemed to slowly repair a once-crumbling relationship.
It hasn’t been that long since I came out, and while she still doesn’t entirely understand, I accept her offerings of McDonald’s fries as a kind of neutral ground. Maybe one day she’ll find her way to bring me a rainbow cookie, but until then, I’ll keep clinging to this quote by Laverne Cox, “When you put love out in the world it travels, and it can touch people and reach people in ways we never even expected.”