

Homage to my mom's language of love, food, paying homage to 'Crying in H mart'
Oct 2, 2024
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I was listening to (reading) Crying in Hmart for a long time today, and it stirred me so deeply. A nostalgic sorrow for something lost forever. The little yet warm moments with my mom was mostly about food. I wrote this to capture the memories that surfaced while listening to her book, in a tone similar to Michelle Zauner’s in her memoir.

I still remember the time she taught me that persimmon seeds have tiny spoons inside, so when you halve it, you can see the tiny little white spoon. Or when she made curry tonkatsu, fried and dabbed with kitchen towels to remove the excess oil. Or the apple slices she placed on my bedside in the morning so I could wake up by chewing the tart, juicy apple (which my father often criticized, saying she was spoiling us).
During school breaks, when we stayed home all day without her, she hurriedly prepared our lunch and snacks, directing her instructions at me (not my brother, as I was the more compliant one). She’d say things like: “Reheat it before eating, and put it back in the fridge so it doesn’t spoil.” “There are two fruit bowls for both of you—have one before lunch and the other before dinner as a snack.” “Have that bread with a cup of milk, okay?” She would often add soy sauce to my noodle bowl even when I said no, wishing it would taste better.
I remember my mom’s vegetable and pork Ottogi curry, which always had melting, softened potatoes. My brother didn’t like curry, so she’d alternate and make hayashi rice with demi-glace sauce instead. We had pork and chicken more often than beef, but for the seaweed soup she made on our birthdays—and many other days since I loved it—she always used lean beef, chopped small and slow-cooked until tender and juicy.
I used to go to the outdoor farmer’s market with my mom when she needed to shop, and we’d stop by the hotteok stall for warm, chewy pancakes filled with scorching dark brown sugar syrup, sometimes with seeds. The vendor would hand them to us in a small disposable paper cup so we could eat them on the go.
A letter from your little daughter, who inherited your way of seeing and paying attention.
- originally written on May 8, 2023