thoughts about drumsticks
If I close my eyes, I can still remember my mother’s “hongshao ji.”1 She’d tip a whole pack of Costco chicken wings and drumsticks into a pot, and the whole kitchen would fill with the smell of soy sauce, star anise, and mystery herbs as the sauce cooked down dark and glossy. When we were young, this was a favorite dish of me and my brother. He wanted the wings and just the wings. He offered me the legs. I didn’t complain. It was nice to be thought of.
Lately, I’ve been thinking back to that dinner table and wondering when I decided I liked drumsticks. There is no satisfactory answer. As far as I can tell, I liked drumsticks because they were the easiest available option.
By itself, this memory is inconsequential, but it reflects a recently recognized pattern: throughout my life, I’ve always been a second option. It’s easy to say when considering something as trivial as chicken, but when looking at something as meaningful as relationships, it’s a lot harder to swallow.
Of course, everyone wants to be the star of the show and I’ll confess, the idea of being the one someone reaches for first is appealing. But should this be? Is inclusion not enough? Isn’t longing for more just ego? Perhaps. Call it vanity, but that difference matters. In any interaction, the knowledge that those present are there with lopsided interest is irreparable poison.
When I look around, I notice how few people there are, and how lightly most of them are held. I can’t pretend that’s entirely someone else’s doing. I’ve pushed away plenty of people who tried to get close, and I’m certainly no Monsieur Morrel.2 Nevertheless, I still find myself asking is it too much to be someone’s first choice?
Reality doesn’t bend to will, and I’m left with what is. Still, sometimes I wish I could return to the world I knew before I noticed any of this, where being offered the legs was enough, and it was nice just to be thought of.