In the 19th century, America’s first food truck got on the road. It was the “Texas chuckwagon”- a cart pulled by horses that was used as a mobile kitchen in the prairies. Over time, the chuckwagon’s wheels got a bit faster and the food got a bit better, evolving into the modern day food truck. And every once in a while, these trucks park up in a common lot- a gathering known as the rodeo, every foodstagrammer’s dream.

I went to my first rodeo a few weeks into my spring semester of college. It was just a few miles off of our campus, right next to Durham Central Park. Upbeat soul music from the giant speakers in the park reverberated in and out through the metal trucks. Each pop up tried to come up with a more exciting paradox of food combinations than the next: dessert pizza, cake kebabs, strawberry bacon waffles, farm to table lunchables...(kidding, I made that last one up). I was really full from my veggie omelette that morning and so nothing seemed quite tempting at the moment. But one thing stuck out to me.

Little hands and little feet waving around in the air. Babies everywhere. Babies in strollers. Older babies walking. Babies crying. Babies laughing. It’s a rare occasion for me to ever see anyone under the age of sixteen on a college campus. So babies are always one of the first things I notice when I step outside of school property. And no, it’s not because my hormones are going crazy and that I then start picturing my own imaginary kids wearing cute animal costumes and going trick or treating - well, maybe that too. And as a result, I felt myself smiling warmly at the babies. But soon after that I got knots in my stomach, freaking out over the fact that I could actually be a parent one day.

In front of the bright orange “Great American Melts” food truck, I see a small boy in a blue parka waddling around on his own. He is entranced by the rodeo and intently watches passersby purchasing sandwiches, taking pictures of their sandwiches, discussing their sandwiches, and then eating their sandwiches. If only I had the means of financial independence to buy all the overpriced grilled cheeses I wanted, he ponders. His parents are a couple feet ahead of him, chatting amongst each other, and he happens to walk in the same direction as them. He seemed to be an only child, just like me.

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In my house, there were things that my mom was strict about that my dad wasn’t and vice versa. So I would be strategic with who I was doing what with.

Papa is a super saver so I learned quickly to avoid buying things with him. Back to school shopping at Staples with Papa meant no gel pens because they were 67 cents more than the BIC ballpoints and regular pink staples brand erasers instead of the colorful animal themed pack. Every cent mattered.

My mother didn’t spend as frequently but she believed in spending for pleasure. Life’s too short to always budget. That meant, gel pens and pretty erasers for me.

But my mother would throw a fit whenever my room was messy. “This place looks like a pigsty! You can’t have a dirty room. Clean it up now!” She’d exclaim. And Papa would be the one calming her down. I’d glance at my dad and we’d exchange a look: she’s acting crazy.  I know right? We thrived in chaotic environments. She hated them.

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At the rodeo, the food trucks are packed tightly together on a singular street. Pungent barbeque sauces would seemingly spill out from the sky (i.e. the elevated windows of trucks) onto diners struggling to squeeze through the lines of people. Greasy food wrappers and napkins overflow out of the metal trash bins. The music is blaring so loudly that I give up on following the debate going on between my friends: “Is it really worth it to stand in the long line for belgian waffles or should we just get another round of grilled cheese?” I could imagine my mom looking around the rodeo energized yet flustered. She would say something like, “the food doesn’t look that good” and I would plead in response “just a ‘little’ bit longer?” But even though we thrived in very different environments, I actually found myself more drawn to my mom than my dad. We were quiet supporters of socialism in our ‘fiscally conservative, socially liberal’ neighborhood. She introduced me to the movie “Borat.”

Naturally, we got along better.

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In elementary school, my parents and I would frequently eat out at our town’s diner. The diner had these cozy booths that lined up against the windows, lit up by hanging stained glass lamps and a view of the train station across the street. I’d always interrupt when the hostess greeted us: “Can we please sit in the booth?” which was always followed by glares by my parents, a polite laugh from the hostess, and surely enough, a table at one of the booths. I would always try to be last in entering the booth. That way I could plan to always sit on the same side as my mom.

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By the fried gyoza truck I see another kid around the same age as blue parka boy. He drops his ice cream cone and the mother exasperatedly scolds him, “Christopher you can’t keep doing this. That is wasting food which is bad.” She grabs his hand and pulls him forward so that they are walking in the same line. His neon green velcro steps outnumber his mother’s leather booted strides 5 to 1. I lose sight of the family as they turn the corner by the sandwich stand.

Being from the northeast makes me a sandwich snob. And with full unabashed bias, I will confidently tell you that my town’s Deli is objectively the best in the whole wide world. And because it’s so good, it’s always busy. Busy to the point that I couldn’t tell you what color the walls are because of how many people are inside in the space. It’s mildly terrifying during lunchtime on the weekends. Picture a New York City subway during rush hour. There is no time to think. You have to know what you want going in because even when you’re waiting, you’re too distracted by managing the hustle and bustle of the space- or you’re distracted by avoiding making eye contact with anyone you know peripherally (which at times is practically everyone there). The team of chefs behind the counter operates like a beehive. The shouting of orders back and forth across the crowded room equilibrates to a buzz which is ever so often interrupted by the ringing of a bell and the hollering of “gobbler!” (our thanksgiving themed sandwich).

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During a summer weekend between my first and second year of college, my family and I found ourselves at the deli after attempting to “consider” going to one of the newer restaurants in town.

As Papa placed the sandwich order at the counter I spotted a basket of chocolate chip cookies in front of me. They were wrapped in plastic and tied in twine so I knew they were homemade. I pressed my finger into one of them. They felt fresh to the touch.

“Can we get cookies too?” I asked my mom.

“Yeah of course, ” she said. My dad squeezed his way through the line of people and made his way towards us.

“No cookies, that’s a waste of money, ” he said as soon as he saw them in my hand.

“But Mama said I could get them!” I argued, trying to keep my voice low.

“We don’t need them. Put them back,” he ordered

“But I said she could have them,” my mom insisted.

“She can eat the cookies that are at home. I said no- my say goes” he declared and snatched the cookies from me and tossed them back into the basket.

“But I want them too,” my mom pressed coldly now. “You literally go out for lunch everyday and you call spending an extra $2 a waste of money just because you don’t want it? That’s not right of you.”

“I don’t care” his voice got louder and I was hoping the white noise crowd drowned them out.

“Well I’m buying them anyway,” my mom said and grabbed the package of cookies. Papa’s eyes hardened and he tried to snatch the cookies from her grasp.

“Gobbler!” an employee yelled and the clanging of the bells hurt my ears.

My parents were now playing tug of war with the pack of cookies.

“Sanjay!” my mom exclaimed. Papa finally let go.

We paid and in silence, went outside to eat. As we sat down, a strong gust of wind knocked over the bright red umbrella from our table and it almost hit the family sitting behind us. Now everyone was looking at us. I focused my gaze downwards and examined my usual sandwich order: rosemary focaccia stuffed with grilled chicken, tomato, lettuce, mozzarella, and pesto aioli. My stomach churned at the thought of being full from this and I decided to just eat the slice of pickle that sat on top of the bread. I winced at its tartness but I kept munching, taking pleasure in the slight pain it brought to my tongue. Then I tentatively reached for the chocolate chip cookie.

“Can we split the cookie?” Papa innocently asked and I stared back at him, incredulous. My mother was already looking at me reproachfully so I fought the urge to call him a hypocrite. Instead, I broke the cookie and gave him the smaller half.

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I wait in line with my friend as she excitedly prepares to order her beloved fried oreos from the “American Concessions” food truck. Ahead, I see a small girl in red rain boots looking up at the sugar cookie her dad is holding. I could imagine myself in her place.

“Did you already eat your cookie?” Papa would laugh and I would nod back. “Well I’ll split my cookie with you too.” I’d grin widely as he broke the cookie and gave me the larger half.

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When I was very little, Papa constantly teased me about my nose, insisting that my mother’s sharp and dainty nose was very different from my own. He would give my nose a quick squeeze at the breakfast table, joking that this could “help my nose become narrower.” I’d try to swat his hand away in a delayed reaction and I could feel the smallest sting in my nose.

Everyone agrees that I have my father’s jawline. I look at Papa whenever people tell us this. There is always a small fleeting pain in his eyes. The physical similarities between us end here.

On the other hand, people will comment that I look like a carbon copy of my mother. I’m pleased to hear that others can see a resemblance between me and my mom, because personally, I can’t see it. But when I glance over at Papa, I see the same longing look in his eyes as he laughs it off with a quip: “except for their noses of course.” So I hold back a large smile and notice that my mother’s face is also neutral. She’s taught me to be emotionally aware.

It’s a familiar conversation that always ends with me feeling even farther away from my dad and even closer to my mother. Just like him, I place too much weight on what others say.

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A few years ago I dreamt that I had a sibling. My mother and I were standing in our old kitchen before it had been renovated and tears were streaming down her face. She doesn’t like to weep in front of others. This is how I knew it was a dream. She told me I had an older sister who died two years before I was born. I don’t remember what her name was in my dream but sometimes I still think about her. I feel like she would be called Shreya. Shreya would get into more arguments with our mom than with our dad. Shreya would have my mom’s jawline but would resemble my dad in every other aspect. People would say Shreya was a carbon copy of our father and my dad would smile with such a strong security that I have never seen in his eyes. Sometimes, I wish Shreya existed for him. 

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My favorite thing about early dismissals in high school was eating lunch with my dad. Eating out at restaurants is a hobby for him and getting home early meant I got to join him on his adventures. We became regulars at “Sakura,” the Japanese restaurant in our town. It was tucked in on the corner of a side street, behind the Chase Bank and a few buildings away from the diner. The food was decent but not extraordinary which meant there would always be a table available.

We’d always sit at the same spot: a table that seated four, one row over from the windows with a view of the train station across the street . We would begin by ordering green tea that came out too hot for me and just the right temperature for my dad. He would then encourage me to always order something from the lunch special because it was “the best deal” so I’d end up ordering the chicken teriyaki bento box most days while he got some assortment of sushi rolls. I’d place my phone face down on the white tablecloth and glare at my dad until he did the same. The events would always unfold in this order. Finally, we’d dig in. Well actually, I’d always struggle to pick up the rice with my chopsticks and my dad would shake his head laughing. Then he would tell me stories about when he was in his twenties working in Muskat and Tokyo.  Uninterrupted by the noise from the rest of our worlds, I would understand him best here.

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We’ve gotten tired from navigating the crowds of families and food trucks so my friends and I sit down on a dead patch of grass behind “Stuft”, a food truck that sells gourmet potatoes. Its logo is a femine potato face made up with mascara and red lipstick. Madame Stuft has human limbs and flirtatiously poses in high heels, holding a stuffed potato in her right hand... do better Stuft. I see blue parka boy, red boots girl, and green sneakers guy walking around the field in their trios of families. I wonder if red boots girl is standing closer to her dad than to her mom on purpose. Or is it pure coincidence? I close my eyes for a moment and try to picture myself as a mother, walking with my faceless daughter and her faceless father through the park grounds. I try to picture her holding her father’s hand but not mine, and that it always is like this when we are both walking next to her. Though it’s impossible for me to imagine how I’d feel in response. I’ll only know if the time comes.

Ila Kaul grew up in New Jersey and studies Neuroscience and Creative Writing at Duke University. She is a tea aficionado.