Durian

“A rotting animal,” “your dead grandma’s cheese cabinet,” “a sewer overtone” food critics would label; yet, I never fail to beg for more when I visit my uncle’s durian farm in Sungai Ruan, Malaysia. My family’s farm is prized for its Musang King durian, the best type of durian with its creamy touch that melts in your mouth. Fearing the spiky outer shell, I’d watch with awe as my uncle would pick up durians with his bare hands. I, too, wanted to harvest durian with the same amount of passion and precision like my uncle.

But Durian proved to be more than just a fruit.

Durian became something that defied any kind of barrier between me and my popo (maternal grandmother). While I struggled to communicate with my limited Cantonese, I would feel the muscle tension in my face instantly release whenever my popo would stuff a ripe slice of durian in my mouth. It was a sign of love, something I cherish each day away from her.

Durian became the food that bridged my community back home to New York City. While durian isn’t prized with the same amount of fame in New York, I am persistent to show people around me the beauty of this Southeast Asian fruit. From the annual Southeast Asian fair in Chinatown or culture events at my school, I am always ready to share a piece of me that will one day be appreciated.