The Little Saigon market was pandemonium this morning. My mother and the other old ladies were all cutting in front of each other at the butcher's counter, everybody was elbowing each other out of the way for the best head of lettuce, etc. Mom even shoved her way past some disabled woman (who was using crutches and who was arguably a little person) as they were rushing for the 15-items-or-less line. It was a glimpse into the decades of trauma that these war-torn people have experienced. Every aisle was a jumble of carts and Vietnamese, and I guess you were supposed to just smash your way by if you wanted to get through it. It was scary. It's really no wonder they kicked America's ass.
Now my mom keeps referring to broth as "the juice." (I keep telling her that it ain't juice unless you squeezed it out of something, but she won't listen.) She also keeps insisting that broth has the same nutritional value as the meat from which it's made. Her ignorance is astounding. Still, it's nice to hang out with Mom for the holidays.
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