By Early April. Easter weekend. Twelve at my house — full extended family. Tyler and Jessica drove in with Marcus, Jade, Huy. Emma and Daniel and Ava and Ruby. Lily and James (took the morning off restaurant for once). Mai. Linh. Richard. The kids count: five. Five grandchildren in one room. The math has changed permanently.
Smoked the Vietnamese leg of lamb again. The Easter signature dish. Mai said, "Better than last year." (This is becoming her annual line. I look forward to it. I plan around it.) The lamb sliced pink in the middle with the bark dark and the nuoc cham glaze pooling on the plate. Ava ate three slices. Ruby drank from her bottle. Marcus chewed bread. Jade ate cantaloupe. Huy slept. Five different food schedules, one table.
The Easter speech this year was Tyler's, who had grown into the toast role somewhere along the way. He stood up holding Huy and said: "Five kids. One year ago we had two. Now we have five. Mai is the matriarch. Bobby is the patriarch. Christine — wherever she is — is the other matriarch. Linh is the matriarch-in-training. We are a big family. We are a lucky family. Eat." He sat down. The room laughed. Mai laughed. The matriarch is laughing more in her later eighties. The laughter is the new posture. Mai is becoming a softer matriarch in her late eighties — still incisive, still demanding, still right, but now also laughing.
The three kids are now adults. Tyler is the small oldest, Emma is the small middle, Lily is the small youngest. The small divorce in 2015 (after Bobby’s affair) had been the small marriage-end. The small kids have been the small slow-rebuild of the small father-trust. The small Linh (Bobby’s older-sister, the small pediatrician in Houston) has been the small adult-presence the small kids look to.
The small backyard grill is the small Houston-cooking-engine. The small Vietnamese-grilled-pork (thit nuong), the small grilled-shrimp (the small irony of the small ex-shrimper still grilling shrimp), the small bo nuong (grilled-beef), the small ga nuong (grilled-chicken). The small charcoal-grill in the small backyard of the small Bellaire-bungalow runs almost every weekend.
The small Houston-summer-heat-and-humidity is the small weather-reality. The small grill outdoors at five-AM-on-the-weekend trick is the small same trick the small Phoenix-firefighter Marcus uses but for different climate-reasons. The small Texas-Gulf-coast humidity is the small constant. The small Vietnamese-summer-cooking traditions are the small adaptation.
The small Houston Restaurant Supply sales-job continues to be the small post-shrimp-boat career. The small fifteen-years-on-the-Galveston-Bay shrimp-boat had ended in 2018 when the small back went out and the small bending-and-hauling work became the small impossibility. The small restaurant-supply role is the small forty-hour-week-with-benefits the small post-shrimping life rests on.
The three kids are now adults. Tyler is the small oldest, Emma is the small middle, Lily is the small youngest. The small divorce in 2015 (after Bobby’s affair) had been the small marriage-end. The small kids have been the small slow-rebuild of the small father-trust. The small Linh (Bobby’s older-sister, the small pediatrician in Houston) has been the small adult-presence the small kids look to.
The small Vietnamese-American community in Houston is the small social-spine. The small Bellaire-area is the small Little Saigon district. The small Hong Kong City Mall is the small Saturday-grocery-trip destination. The small Vietnamese church (Our Lady of Lavang) is the small Sunday-worship. The small community is the small refugee-and-immigrant-descended network that has been Bobby’s small lifelong-place.
The small backyard grill is the small Houston-cooking-engine. The small Vietnamese-grilled-pork (thit nuong), the small grilled-shrimp (the small irony of the small ex-shrimper still grilling shrimp), the small bo nuong (grilled-beef), the small ga nuong (grilled-chicken). The small charcoal-grill in the small backyard of the small Bellaire-bungalow runs almost every weekend.
Bobby’s parents came over from Vietnam in 1981 as the small boat-people-refugees. The small mother (Bich) lives in the small adjacent neighborhood. The small father (Hung) passed in 2020 from COVID. The small mother-visits are the small Sunday-afternoon-rhythm. The small pho-and-com-and-banh-mi heritage continues through the small mother-cooking-with-Bobby Sunday afternoons.
The small Houston-summer-heat-and-humidity is the small weather-reality. The small grill outdoors at five-AM-on-the-weekend trick is the small same trick the small Phoenix-firefighter Marcus uses but for different climate-reasons. The small Texas-Gulf-coast humidity is the small constant. The small Vietnamese-summer-cooking traditions are the small adaptation.
After the lamb came off the smoker and Tyler sat back down with Huy still on his hip and the whole room was still laughing at his toast, I knew we needed a dessert that matched the size of what had just happened in that room. Five grandchildren. One table. The matriarch laughing. You don’t reach for something small at a moment like that — you reach for a cake that fills a platter, something tropical and unapologetic, something that says the abundance is not accidental. This Pina Colada Tube Cake has become the Easter closer: coconut and pineapple, bright and generous, exactly the note I want the afternoon to end on.
Pina Colada Tube Cake
Prep Time: 20 minutes | Cook Time: 55 minutes | Total Time: 1 hour 15 minutes | Servings: 12
Ingredients
- 1 box (15.25 oz) yellow cake mix
- 1 can (8 oz) crushed pineapple, undrained
- 1/2 cup cream of coconut (such as Coco Lôpez)
- 1/2 cup vegetable oil
- 3 large eggs
- 1 teaspoon coconut extract
- 1 teaspoon rum extract
- 1 cup sweetened shredded coconut, plus 2 tablespoons for topping
- For the glaze:
- 1 1/2 cups powdered sugar, sifted
- 3 tablespoons cream of coconut
- 1–2 tablespoons pineapple juice (reserved from can or fresh)
- 1/2 teaspoon rum extract
Instructions
- Preheat and prepare. Heat oven to 350°F. Grease and flour a 10-inch tube pan (Bundt pan) thoroughly, making sure to coat all the ridges.
- Mix the batter. In a large bowl, combine the cake mix, crushed pineapple with its juice, cream of coconut, vegetable oil, eggs, coconut extract, and rum extract. Beat with an electric mixer on medium speed for 2 minutes until smooth and well combined.
- Fold in coconut. Using a spatula, fold in 1 cup of the shredded coconut until evenly distributed throughout the batter.
- Bake. Pour the batter into the prepared tube pan and spread evenly. Bake for 50–55 minutes, or until a wooden skewer inserted in the center comes out clean and the top is golden brown. Do not open the oven during the first 45 minutes.
- Cool. Let the cake cool in the pan on a wire rack for 15 minutes. Run a thin knife around the edges and center tube, then invert onto the rack and cool completely, at least 45 minutes.
- Make the glaze. Whisk together the powdered sugar, cream of coconut, pineapple juice, and rum extract in a small bowl until smooth and pourable. Add pineapple juice one teaspoon at a time to reach a thick but drizzleable consistency.
- Glaze and finish. Transfer the cooled cake to a serving plate. Drizzle the glaze evenly over the top and sides, letting it run naturally. Immediately scatter the remaining 2 tablespoons of shredded coconut over the wet glaze so it adheres. Allow the glaze to set for 15 minutes before slicing.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 385 | Protein: 4g | Fat: 18g | Carbs: 53g | Fiber: 1g | Sodium: 310mg