You ever feel guilty for something you’ve done even though you know you absolutely didn’t do anything wrong?
Let me explain what we did last weekend and see if you’d feel the same way.
From our home in Poway, my wife Maya and I as well as our son Tyler went up Fullerton for a family reunion. The occasion was to see my Auntie Jen and her family, who traveled from Taiwan to California to meet up with family. We had family coming in from Colorado, the East Coast and from Washington. There were about 50 of us meeting at a fancy restaurant and we reserved a banquet room to house all of us.
It was a wonderful get together, visiting with family we hadn’t seen in years. But let me get to the “illicit” activity.
Somewhere along the way, my Auntie Lucy says that after lunch, we need to stop off at a nearby store and pick up some homemade buns. My Auntie Lucy is in her 80s, walks with a cane, and since I was a kid, has known how to cook and find the best food in every town she goes.
So, if Auntie Lucy says these pork buns are good, you know they will be the best.
The only thing is, Auntie Lucy isn’t quite sure about the address of the bun house, but she says my Auntie Linda will know, and she will give us the address and directions. Auntie Lucy insist that we ask Auntie Linda for the address, and that’s exactly what we do.
Once we approach Auntie Linda, she doesn’t actually have the address either, but her husband, Uncle Paul does. He picks up a napkin off the banquet table and proceeds to scribble down some cryptic notes as he gives us his directions to the place.
Right after we finish lunch, we all pile into the car and head for the bun supplier.
Now, you tell me, does the following sound like we’re buying buns, or does it seem like we’re after something much more sinister?
According to my uncle’s instructions, the shopping center we need to go to is just a few miles away. Once we get there, he says that we need to go into the bakery right next to the supermarket and go in the back and ask for Stacy.
We go into the bakery, and nobody knows anyone named Stacy. So now, we call our Uncle Paul, and he gives us Stacy’s cell phone number. My son Tyler calls the number, and a woman answers. Tyler asks: “Hello, I believe we placed an order for…”, and the woman on the other line says, “Wrong Numbah!” and hangs up on us.
Then, Maya calls the same number and starts talking to the woman, and now she seems more cooperative. She says that she has our order, but she’s parked in the parking lot and our order is in the trunk of her car.
So, we then drive over in front of the bakery, which is packed with cars, and we don’t see any car with a woman standing by it with a trunk open. So, we call Stacy back.
We tell her we can’t find her car in front of the bakery, and she says, “Too busy there! I’m parked on other side next to bank! Hurry up! Too many people want their orders too!”
We then drive over to the other side of the parking lot, and we see an elderly woman standing next to a small white sedan with her trunk open, with a number of people surrounding her.
That must be Stacy.
We end up buying 33 buns, because we get a free bun for every 10 we buy. And no, surprise, surprise, she doesn’t take credit cards.
But my Auntie Lucy was right. These are some awesome buns.
Wayne Chan, a Poway resident, writes about family and community life and shares humorous views of topics of the day.
