Crying In H Mart | Michelle Zauner
Michelle is crying in H Mart because her mother is dead. Tears pour down her cheeks not just from grief but from intense regret over the years she wasted defying her mother's influence in her life and denying her mother's - and her own - heritage. Michelle's mom was Korean, her dad a white American, and Michelle grew up a confused child and rebellious teen in the small-town west coast subculture of Eugene, Oregon. Now Michelle can see that their mutual passion for Korean cuisine built lovely, strong bridges over the stormy seas that raged between her mom and herself, and she crafts a beautiful homage to their relationship by describing in glorious detail the food they both so dearly loved.
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^ I have not a single drop of Korean blood running through my veins, but you'll almost always find a jar of kimchi in my fridge.
^ But I don't have to drive all the way to my local H Mart. I buy mine at the neighborhood QFC.
A beautiful thing about this story is that it is true. Crack open the internet and find childhood photos of Michelle and her smiling umma in real life; watch her cook a classic dish on the morning news shows, listen to the latest music videos of Michelle and her band, Japanese Breakfast. Crying in H Mart would have made a remarkable novel, but to know that it is true sends chills down my spine.
“Food was how my mother expressed her love. No matter how critical or cruel she could seem—constantly pushing me to meet her intractable expectations—I could always feel her affection radiating from the lunches she packed and the meals she prepared for me just the way I liked them.”
Another beautiful thing is that anyone who is a mother or a daughter will wipe away a few of their own tears of regret over the various forces that drive mothers and daughters apart. We can relate to the struggles Michelle and her mom tried to work through, and admire the intensity of their connection. I can understand and feel their pain.
“Cooking my mother's food had come to represent an absolute role reversal, a role I was meant to fill. Food was an unspoken language between us, had come to symbolize our return to each other, our bonding, our common ground.”
But for me, the most glorious, delightful, visceral part of reading this book is how it stirs up my own sweet memories of eating my way through Seoul. Granted, I've experienced neither the depth nor the breadth of Michelle's decades of expert-level immersion in Korean dishes. But I've gobbled Korean BBQ fresh off the grill, cooling the sizzling meat in my mouth with pickled radishes, fish cakes, and of course, kimchi. I've sweated spicy dak galbi through my pores in the scorching heat of a Seoul summer night. And I've slurped up a hearty bowl of bibimbap on a rainy afternoon at a bookstore cafe, savoring the sensations of comfort and care that it inevitably conjures up.
“Save your tears for when your mother dies.”
To be sure, I'm no Korean food expert. But I have just enough experience with Korean food to understand the love it inspired between Michelle and her mom. To enjoy this connection to their heart-warming story makes me not only happy, but rather hungry too.
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Hey! Wanna read more about the books I've read in 2022? Check these out:
The Vanishing Half
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For a full list of books I've read in the past few years, click here:
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