My mom, hands down, makes the best pho. I don’t know what she does, but it tastes twice as good as pho in the restaurants. I grew up on pho, something that I ate at least twice a month and it's a meal that takes her less than five minutes to throw together after the broths been made. My mom always tells me that a Vietnamese household is built on our soups and pho is something we should be proud of.
Although it may seem rude in western culture, slurping the noodles up in a loud manner meant good to the host or hostess and was a sign of appreciation for the soup. When I was little, my mom uses to always make me pho when I was sick or on days where the weather was so unusually cold and rainy in sunny California that I could see my breath in the afternoon. Those days I treasured the most since I could sit in bed and watch TV as the steam from the heavenly broth would rise to my face. The warmth from the soup in juxtaposition with the rhythmic pattering of the rain outside would eventually lead to a food coma and long but comfortable naps under warm covers. This was my childhood and the food of my culture will forever hold these wonderful memories that have shaped me into who I am today.
When my mom is making pho I always try to her watch since one day she hopes that I will know how to cook, although I highly doubt that will happen anytime soon since I am still confined to all things that involve the microwave. Sometimes she would let the chicken bones just soak in the broth for an entire day to get that dark and flavorful taste. My job would always be to wash the long white noodles and put them in the strainer until the translucent like white strands were free of any dirt or grime. My mom always dips the noodles in while standing on a stool since she’s such a petite woman and can’t see over the large pot without tiptoeing. Smelling pho is like smelling your house during Christmas time and getting that feeling inside of you that makes your heart flutter and ache a little bit but in a good way. The smell just wafts through your entire house and gives you the best feeling of home and love and good food.
When the soup is ready, my mom tells me to gather my family. Usually, it’s just the three of us, my mom's dad, and I, but sometimes my aunts and uncles come over from time to time. I set the table with the placemats, spoons, and chopsticks. Slivers of onion, white bean sprouts, mint, cilantro, and basil leaves are all heaped on a plate in the center of the table. My mom always complains that I don’t add enough, but at least I add something. In our family, we also like to add lemons and we drizzle it on top so there’s that slightly tangy taste to the flavor-rich broth. You always have to have sriracha sauce and then finally you can mix everything together. We sit down, usually in silence because you might choke if you tried to eat and talk at the same time. But it's usually a comfortable silence as we sit with our faces buried in our bowls, taking big slurps of our steamy heavens.
