The Smell of Cilantro

A taste of belonging and love.

Every time I chop cilantro in my kitchen, the pungent aroma from the tender green leaves reminds me of unconditional acceptance. I bend down and inhale slowly, savoring the positive memories it invokes. Adding cilantro to shredded chicken breast, cabbage, onions, and lime juice fills my heart with love.

A close-up shot of a person chopping cilantro on a wooden cutting board. Photo by Alyson McPhee on Unsplash

Love comes from many sources, but our earliest experience of it traditionally comes from the comfort of a parent and the safety of a home. Love is a critical building block of a strong foundation for growth and success. Some of us left our childhoods with nothing but plastic trash bags holding few possessions and souls shaped by a deep sense of belonging uncertainty.

In early childhood, I lived in cheap motels where the air was thick with cigarette smoke, the sour stench of stale beer, and the heavy-laden presence of domestic violence. Later, the foster home, with its revolving door of short-term stays, offered little validation or encouragement to cultivate belonging. At my grandparents’ home, my worth was measured by how well I complied with the demands of alcoholic, rage-filled adults repeating the traumas of their own childhoods—an environment that did little to build my self-worth.

I had recently turned 16, celebrating my birthday and the end of our sophomore year with friends at the lake, when I was abruptly kicked out of the house in the dark of night. I had only twenty minutes to cram my clothes, digital alarm clock, and cassette recorder into a lawn trash bag. The colorful pastels of my late ‘80s polo shirts and pin-striped pleated pants clashed with the darkness of the scene unfolding beyond my control. My Love's Baby Soft perfume had leaked, its powdery scent filling the air—a sharp reminder life wasn’t gentle, and love didn’t grow in hard conditions.

The faded photo from 1987 shows a group of sixteen teenagers posed together in on a dock on Blue Lake. Their faces are joy-filled, as they celebrate the first day of their summer vacation, and Michele’s 16th birthday.

I don’t recall how many days passed before I received an invitation from a good friend. When I stepped into Khánh’s house, her parents, Bình and Nhung, didn’t hesitate to provide a temporary refuge to a teenager displaced from her home. The tight-knit Vietnamese family of six welcomed me without hinting I’d be a burden, giving me time to figure out what would come next.

Little did I know the struggles they had overcome years before when they came to America. A pilot trained by the US Air Force, Bình had flown more than fifty refugees, including his own family, on one of the last planes leaving Saigon as Vietnam fell to communism.

I did not speak their native language and envied the close-knit familial bond. They spoke to each other with a warm, melodic, and affectionate speech. The tonal nature of Vietnamese, with its gentle lilt and playful shifts in pitch, added a layer of intimacy to their conversations I longed to be part of.

In the time we had together, Khánh taught me a few phrases. Though her parents spoke English well, I wanted to show respect as a guest in their home by using their language. “Thưa ba thưa mẹ con đi chơi,” I’d say to them before we went out with our friends. (“Dad and mom, I am going out.”) Khánh treated me as a sister, and I learned to address her as Chị Khánh, denoting her role as my elder sibling.

I’m not sure if this is specific to Vietnamese culture or simply a characteristic of a healthy family—or both—but everyone contributed to the well-being of the household. For Chị Khánh and me, this often meant helping with meal preparations. Thrilled to be part of a healthy family unit, I eagerly stepped in. Food represented love and community in their household. The kitchen comforted me with the warm fragrance of rice and herbs, and highlighted a caring togetherness that filled the tranquil space we shared.

The meal I remember most fondly is Vietnamese Chicken Cabbage Salad. The evening sunbeams streamed through the kitchen window as Chị Khánh shredded cooked chicken into a large bowl. “Here, Mitch,” she said, pointing to a cutting board. “You can chop the cilantro.”

I had never eaten cilantro before, the herb foreign to me. I realized it wasn’t parsley when I pressed the knife into the green leaves and the citrus balm hit my nose with a surprise. “Chop like this,” Mẹ (Vietnamese for mom) stepped from behind me to demonstrate her technique. I adjusted my chopping, grateful for her delicate guidance.

Together, my friend and I shredded chicken and cabbage, adding onions and cilantro to the bowl under Mẹ’s watchful eye. “Good. Like that.” She smiled her approval.

That day, standing in my friend’s kitchen with her family supporting each other, supporting me, I breathed in acceptance and love. My weary heart rested in it.

I stayed for a couple of months before moving on. I had intended to stay in touch, but my life returned to chaos. I made choices that filled me with shame and gradually let my connections to Chị Khánh and her family fade. Phone calls were ignored, letters unanswered—I ghosted my friend—my sister.

Thankfully, she waited for my resurfacing. It took years and much counseling for me to come back to love, but our friendship was eventually renewed. At times, I still carry guilt for my long absence and for not giving as much as I had received. But shame is not Chị Khánh’s way, and for that, I am deeply thankful.

Chị Khánh, thank you for sharing your love and your family with me. I love you, sister, always.

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Note: Ba (Vietnamese for dad) passed away four years ago after a battle with cancer. Today, I re-read the words his family posted on his memorial page and cried.

“Above all, Bình taught us to always love and care for each other. Bình loved the world, and the world loved him back.”

I didn’t believe myself deserving of their love back then, but I am incredibly thankful for it now.