Remember all those crazy stories you heard growing up?

When I was a little kid, I gobbled down my dinner as fast as I could so I could run across the street to play with my neighbors. My mom would laugh at how much I could eat. It reminded her of the boat ride to the States, she would say. Every day, she got an egg and a bowl of rice to eat, and that was it. Sometimes the egg was spoiled, so she would throw it away. And every day, she gave the bowl of rice to her brother, who she knew was much hungrier than she was.

I really thought these stories were normal for parents to tell their children. She told me all kinds of stories about growing up on a farm and going to college in Vietnam during the war. I had an inkling she was trying to teach me lessons with them.

After hearing the rice story, I would always offer my mom a cold bite of my food before finishing the rest and running out the door in an attempt to prove I learned something. Looking back now, I realize how extraordinary these stories were and how much I took them for granted. I also realize my mom has managed to ingrain in me the habit to never throw away food (I'm always storing up leftovers for days) and offer bites of my meal to anyone around me.