I wrote this piece about a year ago for a UK-based magazine but it didn’t end up making the cut. I also sent it out in my old newsletter, so if you were subscribed to Dirty Maps and Mirrors, it might look familiar.
It felt relevant again to me for some reason.
Enjoy.
Like many other second-generation immigrant kids, saying I grew up identity-challenged would be an understatement.
As one of the lone Korean-Americans in a predominantly white neighborhood, my major issue growing up was trying to figure out if I was supposed to act “white” or “Asian.”
Naturally, food was a big part of this.
I’d be eating bulgogi at home, devouring burgers in public, and trying to hide the smell of kimchi whenever my white friends came over.
I’d ask my mom angrily why she would think to pack me something so obviously fishy smelling for lunch. Didn’t she know? Didn’t she know what an easy target I would be amongst the sea of PB&Js?
Then she’d pack me a white sandwich, and I’d sadly munch on it the next day, missing my fishy-smelling lunch, but understanding that it was a necessary sacrifice to protect my social status.
But despite the never-ending havoc of adolescence, no matter how much I tried to fit into the community outside the walls of my home, there was always one constant in my life - my mom was always cooking something ridiculously good at home.
The jjigaes, the galbis, the gyeranjjims, the japchaes - I was truly blessed with the most comforting Korean foods in my home, while eating the American staples outside of it. This resulted in my childhood comfort foods ranging from soondubu to tuna melts to seolleongtang to quesadillas.
I was always fascinated with cooking, even more so the idea of recipes (throw a bunch of shit into a pot resulting in something greater than the sum of its parts, just fascinating). To the point where I’d play video games like The Sims and Harvest Moon and spend an exorbitant amount of time in the kitchens, playing around with the three-and-a-half options there were to cook for and satisfy my little avatar.
But I never had to cook until I left the nest. And when I say nest, I don’t mean going off to college (where I did drunkenly cook a few dry chicken breasts), but I mean leaving the nest of America.
After a wild turn of events that involved lots of anxiety and job-quitting and one-way-ticket-buying to the other side of the world and tramping through several countries, I eventually settled down in the capital city of my ethnic homeland — Seoul, South Korea.
The decision to move to the country that my parents moved away from during childhood and my grandparents quite literally escaped from during war further proved to twist my already-twisted identity even further.
So, just to catch everyone up: I was a Korean-American kid, who had spent his entire childhood trying to be more white, then moved to Korea as a young adult who couldn’t speak a word of Korean.
(Spoiler alert, as a second-gen immigrant kid, you don’t get to have two countries you fit in with, you get to have zero countries that fully accept you.)
But for the first time, I was living in my own apartment, with my own kitchen, with my own money — with my own freedom to cook. Thus, cooking gradually became my favorite hobby, my favorite stress reliever, my escape from life, my love language.
Notably, the food was all switched around. I used to have the best homemade Korean food, and access to the best American restaurants. Now, I had access to the best Korean restaurants, but none of the American comforts.
So began my home-cooking identity. It consisted of all the American comforts of my childhood. The pastas, the fried potatoes, the chicken noodles, the pizzas, the tacos, the tomato soups, the quesos, the burritos.
I imagine if I had never left America, my cooking style would be vastly different. In America, I would have dove headfirst into Korean cooking. But here in Korea, I rarely cook Korean food or have the urge to learn it, really.
When I was a Korean-American kid, living in America, I always ate homemade Korean food. Now I’m a Korean-American kid, living in Korea, always cooking homemade American food.
Ah, my ritual, you ask.
When I’ve run out of ideas to cook…
I watch American TV.
I inspire myself with the most mindless, relaxing American shows that comforted me through so many lazy summer days and near-death hangovers.
TV shows have an uncanny ability to make anything look fucking delicious.
I watch Homer Simpson destroy box after box of pink-glazed donuts.
I watch Kevin Malone lovingly cook (and spill) his tub of homemade chili for his fellow Office workers.
I watch Jerry attempt to abide by The Soup Nazi’s strict rules.
I watch Joey make his favorite pizza order, the Joey Special (two pizzas).
I watch Ron Swanson wisely say “There has never been a sadness that can’t be cured by breakfast food.”
I watch the shows that make me feel like I’m back home, then I make the foods that make me feel like I’m back home.
Tomorrow night, I’m cooking for some of my girlfriend’s friends. They said they wanted American comfort food.
So I’m making the most American, comforting food I can think of:
chili.
I always remember my mom making the best chili growing up. I spent many nights out here in Korea, perfecting my chili recipe.
Looking back, I now realize that my mom never made it from scratch. It was just canned Hormel chili.
But it was still the best.
Sometimes cooking isn’t really about the ingredients. And sometimes childhood memories are a lot less about the facts and a lot more about the intense emotions we were feeling at the time.
To my mom, cooking was sharing her love by doing her best to make me and my sister whatever we craved, no matter what ethnicity it was (or if she knew how to cook it).
To me, it’s the ability to bring home with me to the other side of the world.
Thank you Kevin Malone, for giving me the inspiration for tomorrow night’s dinner party.
But I bet my chili’s better.
The End
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Hahaha, Hormel chili! I don't even remember when the last time I bought the can. I probably stopped right after you left home to college. You were not the only child who lost identity but I was also a mom who got lost to prepare meal for my kids growing surrounded by white friends.
Hahaha Good old days!