Ever since my mom died, I cry in H Mart. Or in the freezer section, holding a stack of dumpling skins, thinking of all the hours that Mom and I spent at the kitchen table folding minced pork and chives into the thin dough. When I was growing up, with a Caucasian father and a Korean mother, my mom was my access point for our Korean heritage.
This meant an over-the-top appreciation of good food and emotional eating. We were particular about everything: kimchi had to be perfectly sour, samgyupsal perfectly crisped; hot food had to be served piping hot or it might as well be inedible.
The concept of prepping meals for the week was a ludicrous affront to our life style. We chased our cravings daily. If we wanted the same kimchi stew for three weeks straight, we relished it until a new craving emerged. We ate in accordance with the seasons and holidays. In many ways, food was how my mother expressed her love. No matter how critical or cruel she seemedβconstantly pushing me to be what she felt was the best version of myselfβI could always feel her affection radiating from the lunches she packed and the meals she prepared for me just the way I liked them.
I fondle the produce and say the words aloudβ chamoe melon, danmuji. I fill my shopping cart with every snack that has glossy packaging decorated with a familiar cartoon. I think about the time Mom showed me how to fold the little plastic card that came inside bags of Jolly Pong, how to use it as a spoon to shovel caramel puff rice into my mouth, and how it inevitably fell down my shirt and spread all over the car. I remember the snacks Mom told me she ate when she was a kid and how I tried to imagine her at my age.
I wanted to like all the things she did, to embody her completely. My grief comes in waves and is usually triggered by something arbitrary. Eating them was like splitting a packing peanut that dissolved like sugar on your tongue. Her gray hair frizzy, cheekbones protruding like the tops of two peaches, tattooed eyebrows rusting as the ink fades out. Her hands and face would be slightly sticky from QVC anti-aging creams. Other people must feel this way.
