Her Hands. His Eyes.
I Cook With Her Hands.
I See With His Eyes.
Two worlds. One table.
She fed us. He kept us. I’m telling the story.
My father left a box.
I didn’t open it for 24 years.
Her Hands
Every recipe on this page has a story.
The soup I ate every afternoon on the back of my mother’s scooter. The curry that welcomed my husband without a single word spoken. The noodles I make for grandchildren who are hungry. She never wrote any of it down. I am writing it all now.
Recipes she never wrote down. I am writing them all.- Stories behind every dish. Nothing here is just a recipe.
- Four generations. One table. Come pull up a chair.
His Eyes
“He never explained them. He never needed to.”
He pointed his camera and pressed the shutter a thousand times across a country we were about to leave forever. The floating market at dawn. My mother young and laughing in a way I had never known her. He kept it all, wrapped in Thai newspaper, waiting for me for twenty-four years. These photographs are his gift to me. Now they are my gift to you.
- Thailand in the 1970s. Through his eyes.
- Never seen outside our family. Until now.
- 1,000 slides. 24 years. One box. Waiting for me.
His Eyes
From The Box
Photographs by James Terry — Southeast Asia, 1967–1973
Her Hands. His Eyes.
“Thailand gave me my roots. Maryland gave me my heart. Florida gave me my voice.”
— Susie
Her Hands. His Eyes.
I’m Their Daughter.
I was born in Kamphaeng Phet, Thailand, and grew up in Korat until I was six years old. In 1976 my father packed our life into a shipping container and we left for the last time. My mother chose what she could carry — a mortar and pestle, a Singer sewing machine, and recipes that lived only in her hands. My father brought his camera and a brown cardboard box of more than a thousand photographs. He never explained them. He never needed to.
I lost the language. My mother made sure I did not lose everything else. Thailand gave me my roots. Maryland gave me my heart. Florida gave me my voice. I am their daughter. I cook with her hands. I see with his eyes. And now, finally, I am writing it all down.
This Is Happening Right Now
You Are Inside
The Writing Of It.
Every week I open the box a little further. A memory. A photograph. A recipe. And as I write each chapter, I journal my raw emotions in real time.
The grief. The joy. The things I never expected to feel.
You are not just reading a book being written.
You are inside the writing of it.
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