AN GI CHUA?
(HAVE YOU EATEN YET?)
MON AN VIET NAM
MAM COM VIET NAM
I’ve realised that the question “Ăn gì chưa?” (“Have you eaten yet?”) is something I say almost every day to the people I care about. It feels so natural—it’s the language I grew up with. Back home, care and affection are rarely spoken outright. Instead, they’re folded into small, everyday gestures, and food is often the clearest one. The common joke is that Asian parents don’t usually say “I love you”—they show it in the meals they cook, in making sure you’re full, healthy, and happy.
And that never changes, even when the children grow up and move far away. No matter how old you are, how successful you become, or how distant life takes you, parents will always ask if you’ve eaten, if you’re keeping warm, if you’ve been drinking enough water, and if you remembered your vitamins.
When I moved to the UK seven years ago—first as a student and now as someone building a life here—I found myself holding on to this language of care more than ever. Sharing food, cooking together, or even just talking about dishes has become my way of staying connected: to friends, to colleagues, and to a sense of home.
Care often appears in small, ordinary gestures: a bowl of rice kept warm, soup made when you’re sick, fruit peeled and waiting on the table. It’s never just about the food itself, but the actions and conversations that surround it. These moments are often the closest thing to being back home. The exchanges repeat themselves, tender and familiar: “How does your mom make it?” “My mom usually does it this way…” “I have her recipes, but somehow it never tastes the same.” I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve had conversations like this.
Food is…
care made visible
Since I began taking photography more seriously, I’ve been struggling with the big questions: What’s my direction? What’s my niche? Who am I, and how do I express the Vietnamese part of me? What feels like home, what feels like love?
What could feel more like home than a home-cooked meal? Growing up in a Vietnamese family where every dish was made with care—and where having meals together was a must whenever everyone was home—I learned early on to appreciate each meal offered to me. Every family meal carries its own story, even the ones we might rather forget. Sharing a homemade dish is never just about eating together—it’s an invitation into someone’s life, a way to understand them, and a bridge that connects us beyond words.
I love food—deeply. To me, it holds memory, culture, and connection, all tightly woven together. This is the story I hope to tell in my very first (hopefully!) photobook: a story of home, nourishment, and care within Vietnamese families in the UK. It will be a story told through my own perspective, as someone who has called this country home for the past seven years—first as a student, and now as a full-time employee—and through the meals that continue to shape how I relate, remember, and feel love.
A photographic exploration of home, nourishment, and care within Vietnamese families in the UK, from the perspective of a Vietnamese (amateur) photographer
So, what now?
This is Day 0—the very beginning of a journey I’ve long dreamt of: asking Vietnamese families in the UK to invite me into their homes, to sit down and share a meal together. Through these meals, I hope to capture, with my camera, not only dishes, but the warmth, generosity, and intimacy that turn ordinary moments into something lasting.
You can use this form to get in touch about us sharing a meal and letting me photograph it—or, if forms aren’t your thing, feel free to DM me on Instagram @collagewise.