FAST FOOD WAS OUR LOVE LANGUAGE

In his short, difficult life, a greasy meal and a soda were a balm for my father. Every time I eat a chicken nugget, I feel close to him once again

- C Pam Zhang AdApted

IT’S AUTUMN AGAIN, the eighth since my father died, and I’m craving chicken nuggets.

My father would have understood. I don’t remember him saying “I love you,” which isn’t a common phrase in Mandarin, his preferred language. We always had a bit of a communication issue. But his love language was the simple pleasure of processed food.

I have a photo of the two of us, taken when I was two, at the gleaming flagship McDonald’s in Beijing. In the photo, I’m feeding my father a fry. We both beam.

My father was the fun parent, the indulgent one. He introduced me to fries, squirty cream straight from the tube, and fizzy drinks. My father never reprimanded me for overindulgence as my mother did. He laughed. It didn’t seem to matter, then, that his English wasn’t fluent, or that my Mandarin was already slipping away.

Our language of junk food evolved into one of secrets: a conspiratorial Happy Meal on our fishing trip alone, two litres of Coke guzzled together before my mother came home. I felt honoured until I began to understand that my father kept secrets from me too.