Here's something I'm working on. This isn't the last draft, I'm still working on it:

Kamay-kamay is what my mom would call it as we ate rice. She would say it in mocking tones as my brother and I would struggle to ball rice between our fingers as deftly as she could. She looked at us with pity and amusement and a bit of repulsion as we ate left-handed, dropping more than just grains onto the plastic table cloth, and struggled with the other bits that refused to unstick from our fingers, which also had its share of unwarranted bites. But the blandness of the rice and the biting saltiness of bulad went so well together that our struggles were rewarded in the end. Although we never became dexterous in this art, we managed a decent semblance after some more practice but we opted, after a while, for the fork and spoon.
My parents’ climb hand over hand, struggling with American culture, into a right fit took a long time to master and they had a tendency to fall back into their original nook. With some things it was easier to slip back than keep grasp of what was there, mostly just missing the smoothness of the American speech, settling for harsher tones, settling for what they were familiar with. To say “tennis shoes” instead of sneakers or "pi-cha" instead of pizza, oh how we cringed when this was said in front of friends. We would mock them behind their backs or to their faces. In exasperated tones, “Mom! Say hand. Haand, not hun!” and we’d hear her repeat over and over “hane-duh” until she forgot and speak in rapid English, as if to get it over with quickly, “wush your huns na, pi-cha’s here.”