When my life flipped upside down, my mother’s pho helped me heal

For many Vietnamese families in the U.S., pho is a meal consumed amid the chaos of a crowded gathering.

Throughout our lives, we learn to eat and appreciate its comforts at home and afar. It is a rite of passage to experience firsthand the cultural history that preceded us, especially for second-generation immigrants like me who grew up far away from the country that was home to our parents and ancestors. A recipe is an evolving historical document that reflects the circumstances of its time, but when passed on orally by someone who loves you, it can shape the collective memory.

Start with pho topped with raw slices of beef, the red meat curling into little flowers as they are cooked by hot broth — supremely satisfying. There’s chin — long, brown sheets of brisket; sách, the white inner linings of a cow’s stomach; gân bò, the tissue that connects bones to muscles. If you’re feeling frisky, get a phở đặc biệt, a.k.a. pho special, which is topped with a potpourri of cow parts. Don’t forget the squirt of sriracha, additional slices of jalapeños, or the topping of herbs, like Thai basil. The possibilities abound.

I learned to make pho from my mother, as any dutiful Vietnamese daughter might. Most women in Vietnam learn to cook in anticipation of getting married, when they leave their own homes and become part of their husband’s family.

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But my story was a little different. I learned to make pho eight years ago while in the middle of a divorce, in the kitchen of an apartment in disarray. The dining table, a centerpiece of almost every apartment I’ve lived in, was barely set up, barricaded with boxes holding the broken pieces of a former life I had shared with my husband.

My mother, my father, and my brother had traveled to New York for the first time since they had learned of my separation. Before this, I had never shared any heartbreak with them.

My parents had sacrificed so much — their language and the relative comfort of an environment that made them feel like they belonged. They left their home for Germany, a country that provided material and physical safety away from a cruel war, but little else.

I did everything I thought they wanted in a daughter; I tried to be the daughter their sacrifice deserved. I got good grades, earned a masters degree. I’d learned how to earn my own money and stand on my own two feet. I got married. The next step was to have a family of my own.

But I couldn’t. Not with this man.

When I decided to get divorced, I felt like I had broken a promise — not to him, but to them.

For so long, I had remained a child to my parents, a little sister to my older, loving, and protective brother.

They hadn’t noticed I had grown into an adult who was struggling, with needs of her own.

That winter, I finally faced them, exhausted and no longer able to keep up the charade.

“Mẹ không biết làm thế nào để con vui,” my mother told me. “I don’t know how to make you happy again.”

And I didn’t either. We had been worlds apart, both physically and culturally for so long.

“Mẹ sẽ dạy con cách nấu phở, duoc khong?” I asked, in my broken Vietnamese. “Will you teach me how to make pho?”

Pho was a language we both knew how to speak.

In a giant pot she immersed an entire chicken in water. She placed ginger and onion on an open flame. ”Đợi nó chuyển sang màu đen,” she said. “Wait for it to turn black.”

She washed the charred vegetables and placed them in the water. I watched with puffy eyes.

Then she prepared a satchel of spices, whole and dried, and placed it in the water.

“Con có thể mua gói này trong Chinatown. Nó có tất cả cho nấu phở,” she said. “You can buy this package in Chinatown. It has all the spices you need.”

For hours, the soup simmered. The apartment where I was attempting a new start was suffused with familiar smells.

My mother left to go back home a few days later, gifting me with the ability to heal myself, if just a little.

But that wasn’t all that she gave me that winter. After that, our rapport changed. She stopped asking about the status of my savings account or when I’d give her grandchildren, or about what I’d eaten that day.

From that night on, every time she’d call, she’d ask me a question that broke me in half and restored me at the same time. She’d simply say: “How are you feeling?”

Makes 10 to 12 servings

You can buy ready-made spice mixes for pho in an Asian grocery store. In Philadelphia, my mother’s friend from Saigon and a decades-long Philadelphian recommends Oregon Market or Hung Vuong market. The mix may come with whole spices (pods, sticks, and peppercorns) or a powder inside what looks like sealed tea bag. There’s some controversy around whether using pre-ground spice mixes is a form of “cheating,” but this recipe comes to you from an immigrant mom who has always learned to make do with what she had. You have my blessing to do the same.

Ingredients

For the broth:

1 large yellow onion (whole)

A 6-8 ounce piece of ginger (whole)

1 whole chicken (medium-sized, about 5 pounds, brought to room temperature)

24 cups or 6 quarts of water

3 cinnamon sticks

3 full pieces of star anise

1 tablespoon black peppercorns

1 teaspoon of coriander seeds

5 cardamom pods (whole)

2 large pods of black cardamom (whole)

4 tablespoons salt

2 tablespoons sugar

To serve

One package (250 grams or 8 ounces) of flat, thin rice noodles. In Vietnamese they are referred to as banh pho, but you can use the noodles that many grocery stores may carry, such as pad thai noodles.

One small yellow onion, sliced into rings or half-moons

Two scallions, sliced

One 12-ounce bag of bean sprouts

Black pepper, to taste

5-6 sprigs sweet Thai basil, stems removed (optional, for serving)

6-12 whole leaves of culantro (optional, for serving)

1 lime cut into wedges

1 jalapeno, de-seeded and sliced thin (optional, for serving)

Hoisin sauce (optional, for serving)

Sriracha (optional, for serving)

Directions

To make the broth, char the large onion and the ginger on open flame for about 10 minutes, turning them once about 5 minutes in. They should be blackened on both sides. Alternatively, you can broil them on high for 5 minutes on each side.

Run the charred onion and ginger under cold water and remove the blackened bits. Vigorously rub off the blackened skins or use a knife.

In a large stock pot, bring the water to a boil.

Put the entire chicken into your sink and rinse. If you are not using a spice packet, wrap cheesecloth around the cinnamon, star anise, peppercorns, coriander seeds, and black and green cardamom to form a pouch. When the water is boiling, place the chicken, the spice pouch, and the charred onion and ginger into the water. Add the salt and sugar.

Lower the flame to medium and continue to simmer the broth. You may see little gray foam clouds rise to the top of the broth. Skim this fat off throughout the simmering process.

Remove the chicken after 30-40 minutes, when the meat has fully cooked. Allow it to cool slightly, then remove all the meat and skin and set aside for serving. Start by removing the thighs and wings, then slice off the breast meat. The meat should be cut into pieces that are 2-3 inches long and 0.5-1 inches wide, but no need to be perfect. Add the bones back into the broth for flavor.

Continue simmering the broth at medium-low heat for another 1½-2 hours. The liquid should be golden yellow, with little bubbles of floating chicken fat when ladled. You can continue to simmer the broth to develop stronger flavors. Next-day pho may be my favorite kind of pho. Just be mindful that your broth will become saltier as the water boils off.

To serve pho, prepare one bowl at a time.

As broth nears completion, soak the rice noodles or banh pho in hot tap water for 10 minutes. While they are soaking, bring 3-4 quarts of water to a boil in a medium-sized pot and set out soup bowls for each serving.

Using a colander or sieve, submerge about two tablespoons of bean sprouts in the boiling water for 30-60 seconds until they are parboiled. They should be slightly limp but still toothsome. Remove from the water to a soup bowl. With the water still boiling, submerge a colander with about two ounces of softened noodles for 30-60 seconds until they are al dente. Remove the noodles from the water and add them in the same bowl as the bean sprouts. Repeat steps for each serving.

Add a handful of 1- or 2-inch pieces of chicken to your base of parboiled bean sprouts and cooked noodles.

Pour 2-3 ladles of broth over the noodles and chicken, and garnish with sliced onions, spring onions, and cilantro. Add a sprinkle of black pepper on top. If desired, serve with sweet Thai basil, culantro, lime, jalapeno, sriracha, and hoisin on the side — pho is extremely customizable and can be as spicy, acidic, or savory as each person desires.