The Stories

I grew up eating raw fish. So when ceviche appeared in front of me for the first time, I'm not sure why I hesitated.

My Korean aunt had the soy sauce marinade already cooling when we arrived with the crabs. No question about what would happen next.

In Korea, you eat hot soup at the hottest time of year. You finish the last gulp and exhale: 아 시원하다. Ah, refreshing. It makes no sense, until suddenly it does.

My sister-in-law pointed at the menu. Noodle soup in the dessert section. I laughed. And then realized I had never thought to explain it.

In Korea, when it rains, someone makes buchimgae. My Pakistani neighbor described paratha the same way, gathered around the pan, waiting for the next one.

My first Christmas in the Netherlands, the fish inside the temaki roll was smoked herring. I didn't expect that combination, and I didn't expect what it would remind me of either.

My mother sent me a picture of spring greens from a neighbor. In Korea, spring used to arrive that way, through someone else's hands.

My friends suggested gochujang spaghetti for our Saturday cook. I couldn't picture it. Spaghetti was Italian. Gochujang was Korean. I was wrong before I even tasted it.

My mother would call out with a little urgency: can you go to the store and get dubu han mo? I always knew what dinner was going to be.

I was going to make ratatouille in my mother-in-law's kitchen. One conversation later, I was questioning why we call any of these vegetables Mediterranean.

My mother still sources gochugaru in bulk once a year and keeps some in the freezer for me. Running out was never an option in our house.

Everyone else was in the long line at the best satay stall. I was standing alone at the wrong one, except it wasn't wrong at all.

I had seen the words on every warung sign in Bali. I never once heard anyone say them. Then a man set down a banana leaf and everything shifted.

My first Christmas in Hungary, the choice was halászlé or duck. I had a family rule about carp. Nobody at the table knew.

Going to a gyeongyangsik restaurant meant something. The soup wasn't very good, but it arrived in a bowl we never used at home, and that alone made it feel different.

I thought I knew the dish. Then I realized I didn’t know what to call it.

From spotless supermarket shelves to whole animals at the market, a quiet shift in how we see meat reveals more than just what we eat.

A childhood treat from a small market alley leads to a story of how fried chicken transformed in Korea, and eventually traveled back out into the world.

I showed up at a gisa-sikdang in Yeonnam-dong with my own Tupperware. The grandmother looked at my containers the way you look at something that reminds you of a different time.

I waited two hours in line at Franklin Barbecue in Texas. After hearing so much about the place, standing in that line felt like becoming part of it.