AN GI CHUA?
(HAVE YOU EATEN YET?)
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.
Maybe that’s why words have never been my strength, but food has always been my bridge. It brings me closer to old friends, helps me connect with new ones, and often says what I struggle to express. Living in another country has made this even more true—sharing a meal, or simply talking about food, has become my way of showing care.
For many overseas Vietnamese like me, food is a comfort blanket. Talking about Vietnamese dishes, or sharing them in someone’s home, is often the closest thing to being back there. The conversations repeat themselves, tender and familiar: “How does your mom make it?” “My mom usually makes 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 exchanges 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?
Not just any food, but home-cooked meals. 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’s 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.